Heart of Gold
by Ruze a Koure
Summary: Not your ordinary Selection. With the rebels gaining strength anew in the south, the nation left war torn after recent conflicts, and King Maxon growing frail, Prince Julien must prepare for the throne, find his one true love among the thirty five Selected, and contend with surfacing family secrets that threaten to tear Illea apart.
1. Chapter 1

Maids know more than they should.

This is a fact true of all maids, and especially true of a maid like Islana - a good maid, that is.

She knew when the master rose in the morning (at dawn, so the butler was instructed to switch the heating on at twilight, else the tiles were too cool underfoot and sir was likely to catch an illness).

She knew what time the mistress was liable to ring for tea (between five and six o'clock, just after dinner before tea, so the cook had the kettle boiled already and a tray laid out with cups and saucers and sugar and milk as soon as the dining plates were cleared away).

She knew the dreams, passions, fears and quirks of each of the princes and princesses -

And she knew, as all maids know, secrets.

The royal family of Illea kept many secrets.

* * *

Islana had first met the Crown Prince when she was fourteen and he, fifteen. She had just joined the household - the coarse fabric of the uniform was unfamiliar and unforgiving against her skin, she still shook like a leaf during her curtsy, and she was prone to making unforgiveable mistakes when left alone with the linens. But even then, still naive, new to the entire business, she had enough of a maid's eye to garner an impression from the boy that would last her a lifetime.

He was tall, almost taller than his father at this point, and lanky - he had filled out in later years - with a boy's long limbs and a man's watchful eyes, dressed in a sharply cut suit and standing stiffly, formally, as his father went up and down the lines of staff, speaking quietly. A gentleman, as much as a boy his age could be - most unlike his older brother, who stood beside him, a good head shorter and far more rakish.

When Islana closed her eyes, she could still see them, the royal family, lined up before her. She didn't imagine things had changed greatly since then, although she doubted she would have noticed if anything had. Princess Lucie's smile was still as sweet, Prince Julien's gaze still as piercing, Princess Xandra's hair still as wild and untamed, Lord Demetrius' smirk still as sly.

She thought again of Julien - a tousled-haired boy in a suit too-stiff with the kind of piercing-gaze that cut through your heart so that your secrets spilled through the wound.

Whatever girls were Selected, she thought now, they would have to guard their hearts carefully.

* * *

Of all of the family, Madrigal was the most like their mother, and it showed most when Gavril chatted to her about her brother's upcoming Selection. Her eyes were bright and her hands light as she sketched out her thoughts in the air in front of her while she spoke. Beside her, Queen America smiled sweetly, as Queen America always did, and Xandra barely succeeded in sitting still for longer than ten seconds.

Another week, another Report.

But this was going to change everything.

The anthem played, for longer in the studio than on the television screens, and Gavril reluctantly excused himself from his conversation with the young princess, promising to finish the conversation at another time - he hurried back to his spot as King Maxon stood and took his place at the podium. His advisors, with updates on the rebel activity and on infrastructure reforms and environmental concerns, were seated in a long row along one side of the room - there would, it seemed, be several announcementstonight. The royal family, seated on their almost throne-like seats and dressed in elegant clothing on the other side, looked as regal as ever. The much-beloved Queen America's scarlet hair was drawn and wound into a bun that displayed her tiara to perfection, her dress shaded in her trademark blue for this evening - she looked serene. At her right hand, Julien was speaking quietly to her - he was as unlike his father as it was possible to be, and laughter lines creased the corners of his eyes.

After the king had delivered his update on recent raids on rebel camps in the mountains of Zuni, Dakota and Sumner, the Financial Committe updated the nation on New Asia's payment of reparations following the war, ans the Infrastructure Team described plans to redevelop many destroyed apartment buildings in Zuni, which had been worst affected by the rebels.

But no-one was paying attention to any of that - not even the cameras, who were focusing on the royal family. Princess Madrigal, seven years younger than her oldest brother, looked the most relaxed - her long brown hair, the colour of mahoghany, had been braided for the evening, and she wore a dress of the national colours, which she smoothed over her knees from time to time. She always looked at ease, but never more so than at the Report, and the only time she seemed irritated was when she spoke softly to her youngest sibling, Xandra, who, at three years old, did not yet seem to able to sit still through a full sitting of the show.

Madrigal hushed her sister as the Minister of Events came to the podium.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen of Illea. As you all know, notices to participate in the Selection were recently distributed in the mail. We have received the first count of submitted applications and I am pleased to say that thousands of beautiful women in Illea have already placed their name into the lottery for the Selection!"

A miniscule shift from Julien, a minute changing of expression.

"On behalf of the royal family, I would like to thank you for your enthusiasm and patriotism. With any luck, by the New Year we will be celebrating the engagement of our beloved Prince Julien to an enchanting, talented and intelligent Daughter of Illea!"

The advisors - and the king, looking proud - applauded as Julien smiled, looking a little more at ease.

"Of course, we'll be having lots of programming dedicated to meeting the young women of the selection, not to mwntion specials on their lives at the palace. We could not think of anyone more qualified to guide us through this exciting time than our very own Gavril Fadaye!

Gavril returned to the stage he had departed only minutes ago, looking charming with a bleached-tooth smile and a magenta suit with a silver pin flashing in the studio lights. As he passed out of sight of the cameras, he aimed a wink and reassuring smile at Julien, before he straightened his tie, threw out his arms, and gave his greeting to the nation.

"Gooooooooooooooood evening, Illea!" he sang. "I have to say I am so honoured to be a part of the selection. Lucky me, I get to meet thirty five beautiful women! What idiot wouldn't want my job?" He winked again. "But before I get to meet these lovely ladies, one of which will be our new princess... I have the pleasure of speaking with the man of the hour, our very own, Prince Julien!"

With that, Julien walked across the carpeted stage to take a seat across from Gavril. The picture of his father at his own age but for the chestnut tones in his hair, this generation's prince leaned back in his chair - just enough to seem likeable, relaxed, without seeming disrespectful - and gave Gabril, and Ilea, a winning smile. "Nice to see you again, Gavril."

"And you, your Highness. Now, let's get down to business straight away, shall we? In less than a month, thirty-five women will be moving into your house. How do you feel about that?"

Julien laughed. "Well, I already have my two sisters to contend with, so I doubt it will be that different, Gavril - they're loud enough for an entire village!" He smiled, entirely Prince Charming. "Honestly, it is a bit nerve-racking, but I'm looking forward to it - and I hope I don't make any mistakes."

"Have you asked dear old dad for any advice on how he managed to get ahold of such a beautiful wife when it was his turn?"

Both Julien and Gavril looked over to the king and queen, and the camera panned over on cue to show them looking at each other, smiling and holding hands - a rare moment for King Maxon to seem entirely unguarded. It seemed genuine, and it was, but how would the nation know any better?

"Oh, I'd say myself and Madrigal and Xandra are sick of that story by now, Gavril - and I'm sure Illea is too." He shook his head. "I'm joking, of course - my father has been a veritable fount of wisdom when it comes to advice on the Selection, for which I am very grateful. But, as you know the rebel situation in the outer provinces has been escalating so his attention has been distracted in recent weeks, and I've been working with him on the strategic and military side of things."

"We don't have much time left, so I'd like to have one more question. What do you imagine your perfect girl would be like?"

Julien tried to look taken aback, but it was apparent he had expected this question - and even more apparent he had been considering the answer at length. It was hard to tell, but he may have been blushing.

"Honestly, I don't know. I think that's the beauty of the Selection. No two women who enter will be exactly the same - not in looks or preferences or disposition. And through the process of meeting them and talking to them, I'm hoping to discover what I want, to find it along the way."

King Maxon smiled in the background, almost as though he couldn't help it.

Gavril beamed. "Thank you, Your Highness. That was very well said. And I think I speak for all of Illea when I wish you the best of luck." Gavril held out his hand for another shake.

"Thank you, Gavril," Julien said, and for a moment his gaze darted towards the camera as though he was wondering what girls were watching and what they had thought of him. The next shot cut immediately back to Gavril.

"I'm afraid that's all the time we have for this evening. Thank you for watching the Illea Capital Report, and we'll see you next week. Goodnight!"

* * *

As soon as the cameras had been switched off, Julien couldn't help but allow himself to relax slightly, slump down in his chair that bit more, as his parents smiled sweetly at each other and the family began to move off the stage.

The anthem was still playing somewhere in the background as they retreated backstage, where Demetrius was waiting. Tousled dark hair, a loosened tie and a half-open shirt - he couldn't have looked less princely if he tried. Julien wasn't certain why Maxon insisted on Demetrius attending each Report when he was forbidden from appearing on it. Julien doubted very much that anyone in Illea even knew he existed, which was probably a good thing - he wondered how it would affect Maxon and America's nation-wide popularity if their womanizing, quasi-alcoholic eldest son was public knowledge.

Whether Demetrius' demotion to lord rather than prince, and removal from heir, had come before or after the party lifestyle, Julien didn't know.

But he did know that Demetrius was almost definitely hungover at the moment.

His brother gave him a sly smirk as he passed, that Julien ignored. They were polar opposites - day and night, sunlight and storm, Prince Charming and the storybook villain - and they got on about as well as a cat and mouse. The same was true of much of the family - the only person Demetrius seemed to tolerate was Xandra, probably because she could barely talk. Tonight, he gave Xandra only an absent-minded pat on the head before he was off seducing two of the Report's female interns, looking rogueish.

"Well," America murmured as she caught up with Julien. "Are you nervous yet?"

"Yet? I've been nervous since the Selection was announced." Julien shrugged and smiled. "But what's the worst that can happen? I'd be lucky to end up with any one of those Selected, and I'm sure I'll find one that tolerates me."

"Tolerates? Loves."

"I'm keeping my mind open, mother." Julien held the door open for his mother, something that the queen rolled her eyes at, but smiled at nonetheless.

"Good luck, Julien," his mother said. "You'll need it."

* * *

Name:  
Age:  
Caste:  
Occupation:  
Province:  
Detailed description of their appearance:  
Detailed description of their personality:  
Three sample dresses they might wear:  
Makeover (what changes, their opinion towards it):  
Why did they enter the Selection?:  
Why were they chosen?:  
History:  
Family:  
Opinion of Julien:  
Opinion of Maxon and America:  
Opinion of Demetrius:  
Opinion of Madrigal and Xandra:  
Opinion of the rebels:  
How do they treat the other contestants?:  
How do they treat the maids? (I will create them):  
Likes:  
Dislikes:  
Strengths:  
Weaknesses:  
Skills:  
Fatal Flaw:  
Songs that echo their character:  
Sum up their character in one line:  
Other:


	2. Chapter 2

Islana knew the list of what good maids should do better than she knew her own name.

She knew that good maids should ensure that they are prompt, polite and punctual (even if they had been up since before dawn preparing a breakfast the young princess refused to eat and were being told by six different people what to do next).

She knew that good maids should carry themselves as befitting someone of their status, with backs straight and heads held high (even if they had a tremendous pain in their back from carrying the tinderbox to-and-fro from all of the fireplaces in the palace and sleeping on a bed which had roughly the comfort of a rock).

She knew that good maids should obey orders given to them by members of the royal family (even if those orders came from someone like Lord Demetrius, who was bad news at the best of times).

She knew that good maids should make it their business to know the palace as well as humanly possible, and the royal family better than they knew themselves.

She knew that good maids should know secrets.

And above all, she knew that good maids should never, ever interfere with a prince's Selection.

Of all the rules she knew, Islana broke the last one.

* * *

The sun rose in the morning, because it had no choice to do otherwise, and the draw began at dawn.

Prince Julien was forbidden, as princes always were, from seeing any of the Selected girls before the Report that Friday, and so he went in search of some distraction with which he could while away the time without thinking of the future, happy ending or no, that was rapidly enroaching upon him.

It was easier for those such as Demetrius, who, firstly, did not care, and secondly, had plenty of girls and drink and games of chance with which to distract himself. Madrigal was not so lucky - her perfectly calm facade had cracked for the briefest moment at breakfast and allowed a little excitement to spill through, so that she seemed alight with trepidation and anxiety and was forced to retreat hastily to the library to settle herself. Xandra was not so worried - she was just delighted to be spending a rare morning alone with her beloved mother, carrying a bundle of flowers in her arms and following the queen around the garden as America cared for the rose labrinyth that was so very dear to her and her husband.

It seemed fitting that the morning her son's Selection began, she felt the need to care for the symbol of her own.

As if she could tell that her son was watching from the window, she turned and shielded her eyes from the inevitable sun and waved to her son, who could only turn away and pace back along the corridor.

He imagined the girls as they were drawn, and he wondered who and what they would be - willowy and curvy and petite, blonde and red-haired and brunette, shy and sultry and stoic, kind or cunning or quiet. There would be so very many of them, to get to know and then discard in turn.

Well, at least he would be certain to find one that could put up with him, at least.

King Maxon was not in the lottery room watching the drawings, as was typically tradition. At only forty-two, he was far too young to become frail, but in recent years his hair had greyed and his hands had begun to shake and he had retreated more and more often to his quarters with the excuse of exhaustion or ill-health. His wife shone brightly enough for the two of them, but there was no hiding it that the court was worried about the situation. The reason Julien's Selection was so important.

His father's office was locked, as it always was, and as so many of the other rooms in the palace always were.

When they were younger, Julien and Madrigal would wander up and halls, testing the doors in the vain hope that a locked door would suddenly be an unlocked door and they would be able to see all of the secrets hidden away behind it. Julien had grown out of this game, but sometimes he would come across Madrigal testing one of the doors experimentally, as though out of habit more than anything else.

Now, Julien couldn't help but reach out and try the handle of the locked door nearest to him - number six-oh-seven. For the briefest moment, he thought it would open - the handle seemed to give way slightly beneath his hand - but then it stuck and rattled and he dropped his hand, a little relieved that the doors would stay mysterious for at least another little while.

Footsteps behind him, and he turned to see his brother coming down the hallway, looking amused. Julien could not help but feel a slightly unpleasant sensation in his throat when he realized that Demetrius had seen the Selected girls before he had.

"Well?" he said, and his brother shrugged in that careless way of his.

If it had been Maxon, he would have said something vaguely reassuring about the entire situation. If it had been America, she would have gave him some indication as to her feelings towards the Selected girls. If it had been Madrigal, she would have been unable but to let something - anything - about the girls slip.

But this was Demetrius.

"Feel free to let me have any of them that you don't want for a night," Demetrius said, and disappeared into his room.

Julien made that impatient noise that Demetrius seemed to cause in anyone he met, and looked over to the window again. America was sitting on the grass with Xandra in a rare moment of unguardedness, singing a song with her sweet voice as she braided flowers into her daughter's hair.

Julien tried to tell himself that everything would be fine.

The draw was over, but the Selection had just begun.

* * *

**SELECTED GIRLS**:  
Kalyana Khan from Waverly, Four  
East Smith from Zuni, Eight  
Lani Watson from Dakota, Six  
Jesse Wren from Sumner, Two  
Katherin Matthews from Sota, Two  
Eden Laramie from Angeles, Two  
Charlotte Cohen from Baffin, Two  
Clio Nightingale from Ottaro, Six  
Eilinora Winslow from Dominca, Two  
Clementine Georges from Midston, Three

**OPEN PROVINCES, still accepting:**  
Belcourt  
St. George  
Panama  
Denbeigh  
Calgary  
Lakedon  
Yukon  
Carolina  
Kent  
Hansport  
Paloma  
Clermount  
Tammins  
Sonage  
Allens  
Likely  
Atlin  
Hundson  
Hondurugua  
Columbia  
Labrador  
Bankston  
Whites  
Bonita  
Fennley

(note: I am no longer accepting castes below a five)


	3. Chapter 3

One of Islana's many new tasks with the advent of the Selection was to supervise her own legion of junior maids and ensure that they were looking immaculate and kept busy at all times. It was an honour and a millstone and Islana resented it.

Ordinarily, this was a task reserved for the older women who had worked in the household for longer - but with thirty five extra girls flocking to the palace needing three maids apiece and tighter security measures making hiring impossible, the palace was running a skeleton staff until some of the girls had been sent home.

That left girls like Islana in charge of other girls like Islana, which was not a great idea.

Today, for example, she had to attempt to diplomatically retrieve a tardy, absentee maid from his Lordship's boudoir, whisper-shout at her about her naivety and foolishness for falling for his act, and then awkwardly comfort her when the other maid promptly burst into tears - "I thought he loved me!" was the common refrain of all women, maids and ladies and interns alike, that Demetrius set his eyes on, and it broke Islana's heart. The sharp edges of her broken heart sawed away at the knots of anger in her chest, until she found that she could not stay upset with such a sorrowful colleague.

No, she was just angry at Demetrius, but who wasn't?

It was while Islana was comforting poor, dear Reesa with awkward words and gentle pats on the back that the blasted, thrice-damned prince, man of the hour, Julien himself, stumbled upon their hiding place.

In hindsight, the pair should have retired to the kitchen to nurse Reesa's pride, but Islana rarely kept cognitive function once tears began to pour and they found themself crouched by the window-seat at the end of a cul-de-sac hallway on the second floor that would soon be home to thirty five Selected.

"Is she alright?" was the first words out of his mouth, and Reesa just pressed her head into Islana's shoulder, shame flushing her cheeks and overwhelming her. It was in defense of her fellow maid that Islana herself set her jaw, met the prince's eye directly and spoke so bluntly - all things a good maid should never, never do.

"No," Islana said. "She is not."

"Is there anything I can do?"

"You can speak to your bastard of a brother, is what you can do."

Her mother would have killed her. First the fiasco with the Selection, then this? Islana would be lucky if she was fired. No one spoke to the royal family like this and kept their head.

Julien met her gaze rather than aiming above it, and those clear, steady eyes cut straight to the heart of her, and Islana was glad for it, because it meant that the sharp-eyed lanky boy she had first seen was still hidden somewhere in this gentleman's body.

He looked past her, then, to tiny, beautiful Reesa, as though ensuring she was safe, before he nodded.

"If you're sure that she is alright," Julien said. "Then I will do just that. I'm sorry to intrude on this."

He turned on his heel and the maids watched him go.

* * *

The Report was ending, and Julien did not have butterflies in his stomach.  
They were everywhere - in his veins, in his arms, in his chest in his head in his lungs in his ears. He took his position next to Gavril, and his arms shook and his legs shook and he couldn't hear anything but wingbeats in his ears.

But no one in Illea would ever see that. To Illea, he was as laid-back and relaxed as ever - he smiled with his sister during the report on recent skirmishes near the border, he spoke quietly to his father about the agricultural report, and he gave a friendly wave and a wink when the Master of Events mentioned his name.

But that was all the prince. Julien himself was far, far away and not in a pretty place either.

Gavril patted his hand in a fatherly gesture, ensuring the cameras did not catch sight, and the photos began to appear - had they always been so fast?

Alphabetical order this year by province, so Angeles appeared first, with a study in contrast of azure and rose and ebony as their representative. Gavril called her name -

"Eden Lamarie of Angeles, Two!"

That was the last concrete impression Julien got of any single girl, because for the rest of the Report, by the time he had seen the photo and caught the name, they were on to the next and he had no time to think about his reactions - he smiled, he looked thoughtful, he nodded, he whispered to his father, he laughed, he looked star-struck, struggling to ensure he did not look bored or displeased at any girl. But he had to wonder what looking at their photos will achieve. What does their name and province tell him about them?

There were so many of them - a sly-looking girl with dyed hair, a beaming girl with long golden hair, a dark-skinned girl wearing a headscarf, an athletic girl with her silken hair short as a man's, an aristocratic, hopeful girl with perfectly ringlets and emerald eyes.

Surely there will be one he can love.

Then, the last girl appeared.

She was as beautiful as the others, as all Selected must be - her skin was mahoghany, her eyes smoky, her hair raven, and her cheekbones were sharp enough to slice through steel. She was not smiling.

But all of the girls were beautiful, and so that was not what got Julien's attention.

It was the announcement that went along with it.

"East Smith from Zuni, Eight!"

An Eight?

They were joking. They had to be.

But somewhere behind him, Julien could hear Demetrius begin to laugh derisively. He could hear Gavril's sudden intake of breath and Madrigal's hiss of surprise and the concerned murmurs of his father and the advisors that the camera did not dare focus on, and Julien realised that this was not a joke nor a dream nor a mistake.

For the first time in Illean history, an Eight would be in the Selection.

_His_ Selection.

The Report ends.

* * *

The country erupts.

For Eden Lamarie, her Selection has been taken as a concrete fact from a young age, so that there is little surprise in her family's glamorous Angeles home during the Report amd the reveal of the Selected - indeed, her mother's only comment on her Selection is to criticise her daughter's photo in snide tones.

In Atlins, Jasmine White is so delighted to see her face appear onscreen, scar and all, that she actually and accidentally jabs her sewing needle right into her finger and has to contend with finding a bandage for it, swearing under her breath even as the entire house erupts in joy.

There had only been one possibility for the Baffin Selected girl, because the war-hero and fighter pilot Charlotte Cohen had entered the Selection and there was no other quite able to compete with her - it is with great relief that her mother sees Charlotte's face appear onscreen and realises her daughter will be safe from any danger of the airborne kind at the palace.

On a small farm in Bankston, Talyah Ahmed allows herself a small smile as her name is announced and her family reacts in total shock.

Then to Bonita, and Rosalyn Akerman's television is so old and broken-down so that the family can only catch every second garbled word of the Report and it isn't until Rosalyn's ex-boyfriend turns up on their doorstep that they realise something amazing has occured.

In the locker room of Calgary University's lacrosse team, far from home, Kelley Winston's best friend Lauren shrieks so loudly at Kelley's appearance on the Illean report that Kelley herself doesn't even hear her name being announced and has no idea what is going on as her teammates begin to chant her name loudly - "Kel-ley! Kel-ley! Kel-ley!"

In a cozy Carolina home of Threes, Anabel Moritz shrieks in delight as her face appears on-screen and her little brothers began to pelt her with popcorn as her mother covered her mouth in surprise and pride.

In Columbia, Addie finds herself holding her parents' hands, one on either side of her, as she waits with bated breath - she thinks her brothers may be even more nervous than she is, if that is even possible, and relieved, but not entirely surprised, to see her appear onscreen.

In Dakota, Lani Watson privately believes that her father is nearly as happy as she is when her name is announced and they see the prince react with a smile to her photo - her younger siblings flock to hug her and she cannot help but laugh and cry in equal measure.

Twos do everything in style, so it is with a large toast of champagne that Eilinora Winslow's family and friends celebrate her long-awaited Selection in their Dominican mansion while the Report continues, ignored, in the background.

In their small caravan in Honduragua, the Xanşayim family celebrate their daughter Tañdalğan's Selection with applause and jokes, laughter and yells, and hearty thumps to the back as the poor girl smiles and smiles and smiles until she can't smile anymore.

For the elevated Labradoran Daughter of Illea, Trinidad Mavuto, her Selection is actually met with laughter from her father, in equal measure incredulity and amusement, as her mother makes a sound of discontent but says nothing.

In a large Likely community hall where the crowds gather to see the Selection, Kelsey Olsen is distracted for a moment by a comment by one of her friends that are gathered around her, so that it is a brief moment between the announcement and her realization that she is in, she is in, she is into the Selection, as everyone floods around her.

In Kent, Destiny Barrow is staring intently at the screen above the counter in her father's convenience store, so intently that for a split second it takes her a moment to register that the beautiful girl they are showing is her - in that split second, the phone begins to ring and will not stop.

In the attic of a once-grand Midton house, Evangeline Jones-Fitzwilliams is so focused on staying quiet as she watches the forbidden Report that she does not allow herself to celebrate her Selection until much later that night, when the entire world is asleep and she is free to clasp her hands together and cry with relief.

In Ottaro, Clio Nightingale is not in the room when her name is announced - she is tending to her sick sister, Akhira, in a back room so that it is only when her aunt calls for her with rare happiness in her voice that Clio races to see what has happened and nearly faints in shock at the sight.

In Panama, Elizabeth Hancock allows herself a quiet, glad smile as her face appears and her mother shrieks in delight.

In Sota, Katherin Matthews has only just rushed in the door from a tutoring assignment to catch the tail end of the Report and to find her parents so gleeful and glad and joyous that it takes her several minutes to decipher what has happened.

It takes three further days for the news of her selection to reach Jesse Wren, isolated as she is in the Sumner mountains, so that it is only when her aides show up at the door of her hermetic home with forms to notarise and waivers to sign that the cadet realises what has happened.

In a busy Waverly street, people begin to pour into a tiny New Asian restaurant to applaud and offer enthusiastic congratulations as the newly Selected waitress blushes to her roots and cheers along with them.

In Whites, Clementine Georges is swept into an impromptu waltz around the living room and then right out the door by the boy next door as the entire Five neighborhood seems to erupt with joy that one of their own has been chosen - that one of their own may become a lady, a princess, a queen.

And so many others as, across the nation, the people celebrate and mourn the Selection of the elevated Daughters of Illea. Fireworks scream into light above the world and no house is silent - everyone is talking about the Eight, making bets on who will marry the prince, scrutinising the Selected and laughing together.  
The Selection has already fulfilled its purpose of uniting the nation.  
If only that was the end of it all.

And in Zuni, the dust is still settling over the newly-fallen Provinical Hall, site of the latest conflict between rebels and government forces, when there is a yell of delight from one of the many Eights crowded around the black-and-white television screen in the middle of the street, and a girl with blood under her nails and dirt on her face and ash in her hair laughs and laughs as her face is shown onscreen.

* * *

So, the Selection shall begin proper soon! Please vote for your favourites thus far in the reviews - theories and critiques appreciated. Let's get this show on the road~~~


	4. Chapter 4

**Sound off in the comments - favourite character, who you want to win, story lines you so and don't want me to do! All critique accepted!**

**Sorry to have so few viewpoints in this chapter, but I focused on developing the world and royal family a bit. **

**Quite a few of you were concerned about cliches - thank you for identifying potential pitfalls, but I have a slightly different plan than the rags to riches cliche! I don't want to spoil it, but I have the epilogue to this story written already and have been dropping hints as to what will happen. Theories and musings are appreciated in your review!**

**To anyone whose character is not included this chapter - my deepest apologies. Nonetheless, I urge you to read the chapter anyway as it contains several details vital to the ongoing, overarching plot (yes, this story has one).**

**Thanks to everyone who reviewed and submitted or are going to submit.**

* * *

Islana did not like the Selected.

This was a fact.

* * *

Her name was Charlotte Cohen. She was a proud Two, from the centre of Ottaro province, and she had been flying planes since she was old enough to hold the straight and operate the landing gear simultaneously.

So, she held her new pilot in a critical eye as she boarded the flight to the palace. It was nothing personal - she held everyone with a critical eye. She was as keen as a blade and twice as sharp.

Tall, broad-shouldered, and weather-creased skin, with salt-and-pepper hair and a matching moustache, the pilot had an unmemorable face but for the scar along one eye that pulled it down, twisting it into a disfigurement. He reminded Charlotte a little of the father she had just bid farewell to, and that idea was a tiny splinter of ice in her chest.

_"Soldiers don't say good-bye. We say, until next time. We say, I'll see you soon. We say, good luck and don't come back_ _dead."_

_"It's just the palace, Dad."_

_"Same advice applies, sweetie. Girls_ _can be vicious with each other, even I know that."_

Her pilot, in turn, assessed her with the keen eye of a fellow aviator and looked just a little bit awed at her presence- not only a Selected, but a soldier. He gave her a respectful nod, that she returned, and spoke for the first time.

"It is an honour to meet you, Soldier Cohen."

She noted the faint dark corner of a tattoo visible above the collar of his crisp white shirt, a sharp line of what Charlotte knew to form an eagle. He was ex-air force, then. Her kin, like it or not.

"And you, soldier," Charlotte returned, although the use of her military name rather than the new courtly title she had acquired made her shudder a little inside. Wasn't she meant to have left Soldier Cohen at home? She was Lady Charlotte now. Daughter of Illea, Selected of Baffin, prospective princess.  
She soon shook herself serious - the war was over, the Selection had begun - and switched the conversation to her favourite subject. "Gale force winds headed due north with two stop-offs about ten minutes apiece, so we should be arriving at the palace in about... two and a half hours?"

"Current estimates place us at three hours and seven minutes travel time."

Charlotte chuckled softly. "Not the way I fly, sir."

He laughed at that, and then stood aside to let the palace aide into the aircraft as Charlotte went to find her seat.

She had worn her Selection uniform of black pants, a white blouse and, at her mother's insistence, a pair of grass-green earrings that accentuated the emerald in her eyes. Her flying jacket was slung over her bag, but that was it. But for her name, that was the only indication that Charlotte was a soldier first and a girl later.

She wore no uniform, bore no medals, but it didn't matter.

She was a soldier and she always would be and everyone knew it.

And she had been so sure she had left the war behind.

* * *

"This is childish, even for you," Julien snapped, turning on his heel to face his brother as soon as the door to his father's quarters had shut behind them. He reached up to the constricting noose of his tie, and yanked it loose so that he could breathe and strode across the room so that he could speak to his brother face-to-face.

Demetrius lounged against the far wall, leaning against a shelves of book he had never read and cared not to, with that insouciant look in his eye that never really ever left his gaze.

"Is this still about that ridiculous maid? What was her name, Lisa?"

"Boys -"

Maxon had been sitting on the couch facing the large window over looking Angeles, America curled up next to him, but now he tried to get between them. Julien sidestepped his father faster than the older man could move.

"Her name is Reesa," he retorted. "And you know it's not. An Eight, Demetrius? Really? Best you could do?"

"Surely his Highness isn't suggesting a bigotry against the lower castes? Won't you be the King of Eights as well, brother?"

Demetrius laughed derisively, and it made Julien's blood boil. The first Selection in Illean history with an Eight as a chosen - an Eight from Zuni, no less - and it would be his Selection.

It was a fiasco.

"It wasn't me," Demetrius added as an afterthought. "What interest would I have in sabotaging your Selection? You think the world revolves around you, Julien, but..."

But he didn't. Julien didn't, and a part of Demetrius must have known that, surely. Did everyone here think Julien was just being a bigoted idiot?

Julien had never thought of himself before the throne, ever. And he was thinking of the throne now. The people would never accept an Eight on the throne. An Eight would never adapt to the royal life. An Eight that shouldn't exist could never be a true queen.

And he didn't want to fall in love with someone only to make them miserable.

"Who else would have had her picked? You were in the room the day of the draw, you were the only one -"

"Well, I wasn't -"

"I know you're lying -"

"He's not," a voice said suddenly. "Lying. It wasn't Demetrius, Julien. It was me."

In his own mind, Julien had only allowed consideration to a few culprits behind this decision. Demetrius, one of the advisors, an error in the draw.

Never had he considered America had made this decision, but she stood now, her hair a fiery halo around her shoulders, her eyes steady, and an expression he had never before seen on her face - something approaching anger, anger at her sons and her heir's attitude and at the entire situation.

It suited her better. She had not been born a One. She had been born a Five, and she had clawed her way up to the throne, and sometimes Julien forgot that, but he remembered now.

"If we contact the provincial authorities now," he began, but his mother cut him off with a stinging slap to the cheek - Demetrius looked as though he would choke with laughter, and Maxon just shook his head. Julien closed his eyes and took a deep breath in.

"Your kingdom is not made up of Ones and Twos alone, boy. This girl, East? She and hers are your people, and they always will be your people. Always. Don't you understand? We have failed her, and we have failed hundreds like her. We promised an end to the castes, but still they exist, and still the Eights are treated like shit in the outer provinces! We promised an end to this bloody war with New Asia, but still this treaty process drags on and refugees pour into Zuni and Sumner! We promised to deal with the rebels, but they have killed hundreds, _thousands_ of our people and razed our kingdom to the ground! _That_ is what you will be king of, Julien, king of a hellhole, king of a wasteland and enpty promises to do things better, and I thought it intelligent you realized this now so it doesn't come as an unpleasant surpise when you realise that this world is not a fairytale!"

She sighed. She dropped her hand. She met her son's gaze as he raised it from the carpet.

"If that's that," Demetrius said then, in his arrogant manner, "I need a drink and a new maid. Excuse me."

He left. Maxon seemed to crumple in on himself a little. Julien stared at his mother. She stared back.

There was something else going on here, of course. The secrets that danced at the edge of every moment the family spent together, the secrets that flickered at the edge of Julien's consciouness, the secrets that they did not know the maids knew and that would destroy their dynasty if anyone else did.

The Schreave family had plenty of secrets.

Julien nodded.

* * *

Her name was Clio Nightingale, and she was starting to worry that she had been forgotten.

One hour, she had been waiting in the windowless airport lounge with her bag at her feet, the goodbyes of her family still ringing in her ears as she promised her little sister that she would do her best to win. One hour, since her going-away ceremony - a rare chance as a Six to stand in front of the province and feel proud that they were all cheering for her. One hour since she had been told to wait five minutes for the plane and not to worry.

But now, she was beginning to worry.  
She fiddled with her provincial flower, the white trillium of Ottario, and tried not to look nervous although there was no-one there to see her even if she had let herself show her true emotions.  
She quieted herself by allowing herself to imagine what faced her in the palace.

She didn't try and fool herself into believing that true love awaited. Clio knew what she was here for, and it was simple - her sister. Her sister, who believed in the fairytales Clio had read her to sleep with. Her sister, who watched the Report and adored the charming Prince Julien and the beautiful princesses. Her sister, who was dying.

Clio had adored the relationship of the king and queen's her entire life, ever since she was a child and she couldn't help but admire Queen America, but, growing up, she could never imagine herself there, in the queen's position, even if she had been a Five. One Caste above Clio.

Clio shook her head. No, no, that was wrong. She wasn't a Six anymore. She was a Three now, and Threes were doctors and scholars and professors and they had access to cures the Sixes couldn't even dream of. And if she managed to stay in until the Elite...

And then there was the fat cheque each week Clio managed to stay in the competition.

She was determined to stay in as long as possible, and Clio had always known that to achieve something, you had to believe it until your heart hurt from belief.

"Lady Clio?"

She looked up. A man had spoken - black hair and black eyes and grey skin, dressed in a black suit with a grey tie and a shirt that was whiter than snow. "Apologies for the delay. We're ready for you to board now."

Clio stood. "Aren't we waiting for some of the other -"

"Miss." His voice was sharp despite his smile. "Time to go."

She nodded and picked up her bags.

And who knew? The prince might not be too bad.

* * *

Her name was Adalyn Larson and, as a dancer, she was used to having admirers.

But she was not used to having fans.

That was the only word to describe the crowds that thronged the streets seeking her attention at her farewell ceremony, a mass of adoring faces and congratulatory shouts as the car crawled through the roads.

Adalyn put her smile back on, bigger than ever, and started waving. Her ex-boyfriend was no doubt out here somewhere, new girlfriend or no, and she was determined to have the satisfaction of success.

He had broken up with her for a dancer, now she was in for a chance with a prince.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please join me in sending off Adalyn Larson, our favorite Daughter of Illea!" the mayor called, no doubt following the exact same script as every other mayor across Illea that day. Behind her, a small band played the national anthem.

More cheers, more flowers. Ribbons were thrown into the air and there was an explosion of confetti that made her little sister Eryn shriek and jump.

Suddenly the mayor was at Adalyn's ear. "Would you like to say something, dear?"

No, not really, Adalyn wanted to say, but everyone was watching and her parents were waiting and she wondered if maybe the prince would see this on the television later.

"If you wouldn't mind," Adalyn said, and the mayor beamed.

"Of course not! Come on, come here..."

She found herself in front of the microphone with a thousand faces in front of her and a million words in her mind and no clue what to say.

"Thank you," she began, but a shriek of feedback drowned out her words and she cringed.

No. Focus, Addie, focus. She thought again of the prince, Julien - how it had always been Julien, from the start, that drove her to the Selection, and how caring and sweet and kind he seemed on the Report. She thought of the life at the palace she had glimpsed during the reruns of Queen America's Selection Reports, and she thought of her parents and how very proud of her they were.

And then Adalyn Larson thought of Adalyn Larson, and wondered what she would want to hear from someone she was rooting for.

"Thank you," she said, and this time her voice was steady. "Thank you all, so much, for - for your support and your kind words and your presence." She took a breath. "I'm not one for talking," she said slowly. "I don't talk. I dance. Because I was a Five, and Fives dance. Like so many of you, I was a Five. And now, like so many more of you, I'm a Three. I'm a Selected. And I'm nothing special!" There was some laughter, and she was glad. "I don't know what I'm doing up on this stage, when I can think of so many of you who would make such beautiful princesses and queens. Like -" She sought out names she knew in the crowd. "Like kind, sweet Jennifer Lao. Or the vivacious, gorgeous Kelsie Allens. Or -" Her eyes met with the girl her boyfriend had dumped her for. "Or talented, beautiful Yasmin Clarke. All of you. All of you deserve to be queens, but all of you are princesses in your own way, in your own world, and I hope I can do our community, our province, proud in the palace." She paused, unsure if she was saying the right things, and a wave of applause rocked the crowd. She had to laugh a little. "My parents always told me that I see the good in everyone and everything. Good that isn't there. La vie en rose - life through rose-coloured glasses. But I think the following weeks are going to prove something I've secretly always known - that my parents are wrong and I'm right." More laughter. "Fairytales are just around the corner for all of us. And all of us - any Daughter or Son of Illea - has something great waiting around the corner for us. We just have to wait, and we just have to see it when it's there." Adalyn smiled. "Don't worry," she said, and it was her easy combination of natural charm and sweetness that made the next statement charismatic rather than condescending. "I'll tell the royal family you all said hello!"

She backed away hastily and returned the spotlight to the mayor, who paused before regaining his position to cup her hands in his. "Well done, dear girl. Don't you worry, I'll take care of the rest. I doubt they'll need to train you for this kind of thing at the palace. You already seem to have a good handle on things!"

The mayor then told the gathered crowd of Adalyn's attributes, slyly mentioning that she was very intelligent and attractive for a Five. He was, as most mayors seemed to be, a nice enough kind of guy that nevertheless slipped into the condescending tone and mannerism that even the nicer members of the upper castes were prone to.

The mayor finished speaking, and Adalyn smiled and everyone cheered, as if the two of them had just collectively given the most inspiring speech in the history of man.

And then it was time for goodbyes, which were quick and brief and horribly bittersweet. Adalyn didn't want an occasion as joyous as her dreams coming true to be ruined with sorrow, so she tried to keep the tone light as she promised to write letters daily and call them weekly and invite them all to the palace once she was queen, which made her mother laugh.

"Don't you be getting ideas!" she whispered to her daughter, and smiled. "Just..." She closed her eyes, head. "I want to tell you to do well. But not if that means winning and ending up unhappy. Instead, I'm just going to tell you to fall in love if you can. You're the most beautiful girl in the world. He'll love you. Make sure you love him."

Adalyn wasn't able to say anything else before the tine was up, the goodbyes were over, and then she was gone.

* * *

Demetrius Schreave got what he wanted. Always.

"The Selection," she said, and he struggled profoundly for her name (Cassie? Calla? Cari?) for only a moment before he gave it up as irrelevant.

"What about it?"

She turned over and he admired the clean lines of her body and the sleek way she moved. His father certainly had an eye for household staff. She was the kind of girl he liked - dark eyes and a slender build and delicate facial features. Names didn't really matter.

"You never had one. Why is that?"

He laughed. "And it pains me so," he replied sarcastically. "The Selection? It's a sham. There's only one reason for it, you know."

"To unite the nation."

"No." He traced a path along her shoulder blades and neck, smirking. "Oh, they say it is."

"What do you say?"

"My great-great-grandfather had one of the first modern Selections," he said abruptly. "Did you know that? Prince Damon. My namesake." Demetrius chuckled. "He knew what he was creating. He slept with thirty-four of the girls before sending them home the very next day."

"Doesn't sound fair."

"It wasn't. Who cares about fair? Anyway, I didn't invite you up here," Demetrius said. "To talk to me about fair."

* * *

Her name was Jesse Wren, and she was afraid of nothing, but this was a fact she had to remind herself of as she watched the plane approach rapidly.

Her bags were packed and stacked at her feet - a lone backpack and a wooden trunk fitted all of her worldly belongings, and she liked to travel light. She still wore her daily uniform of leather jacket and jeans, heedless of instructions for the Selected uniform of black and white, and no one waited to bid her goodbye.

To spend six hours since dawn clearing a rough runway in the middle of the remote Sumner mountains had not been Jesse's imagined scenario of her Selection, true. She had burned away the worst of the scrub and moved the barbed wire and boulders that littered th only straight stretch of land for miles. Now she watched the airplane approach and privately wished that she was still at war.

The plane lifted up again with a groan just as Jesse thought it would land, and soared into the air again to circle a second time. They had come in too fast - without knowing the winds and the mountains themselves, it would take a miracle worker to pull off a landing like this.

Jesse took a quick couple of steps back just in case the landing ended in fire and screaming and explosions.

But the second attempt was like a dream. The airplane coasted along the makeshift runway, jumping into the air at every stray pebble, but steady.

The plane stopped. The door opened, and a man peered down with a faint air of suspicion. Jesse supposed that she couldn't have looked more like a rebel trap if she had tried - a lone girl in the middle of the mountains, looking casual.

"Lady Jesse?"

"Aye," she said and hefted up her trunk with strong arms. "And you -"

"I am your aide. You may call me Mr. Loss. I'm sorry for the circumstances -"

Jesse nodded. It wasn't ideal, of course.

A few moments later, she was ascending the steps into the plane. She hadn't known what to expect, not this - rather than the kind of opulent jet she had seen on the Report, this looked like a hastily-converted scrap cargo plane, with just enough seats strapped in to fit themselves and one other.

'Themselves' was Jesse, Mr. Loss, and a girl that even a ground fighter like Jesse recognised as the Baffin Air Force's Charlotte Cohen. She gave the other girl a nod, registering that the other soldier had been Selected also. They didn't get the Report up there, so Jesse didn't know what, or who, to expect.

They assessed each other silently for a moment - Charlotte subtly, Jesse openly. On one side, a petite, slender girl with coppery-blonde hair falling just below her shoulders. On the other, a tall girl with broad-shoulders and hair just growing back from a shaven head.

They both decided at the same time to be allies rather than enemies, and that was that.

"I didn't know we had an outpost up here," Cohen remarked. Jesse registered her use of the plural regarding the military, before she shook her head and collapsed into a seat.

"_We_ don't. I'm on annual leave, thanks be. This -" She rapped her knuckles against the Plexiglass window, indicating the rocks and barren ground. "Is home." She smiled wryly, and after a moment, Cohen returned it.

"What's with the rustbucket?"

Cohen shrugged. "Far as I can tell, we'll be going over rebel territory. Anything with the palace seal on it gets blown up or shot of the air. No exceptions."

"So everyone else gets the jet, huh?"

Mr. Loss interrupted. There was something about him, his tight-cropped hair or his clipped tones, that made Jesse see him as some kind of a drill-sergeant rather than a secretarial aide from the palace. "Security measures have been greatly heightened this year, Lady Jesse. Yours is the only contigent to contain more than one Selected in it. The rest of the girls are being flown seperately and, shall we say, discreetly, to the capital to prevent any chance of... unpleasantness."

She nodded. Jesse was not a girl of many words. "We going straight to?"

"One more pick-up." Cohen sighed and ran a hand through her hair. "And considering they felt the need to ensure four soldiers, ex and otherwise, on the plane, I have a bad feeling about where we're going."

* * *

Within two days, Islana had lost two of her best maids to Lord Demetrius.

First Reesa, and now Calli.

She was on the verge of going up to his room herself - not for anything unsavoury, just to give hin a piece of her mind and beat him about the head until some form of morality slipped in through the cracks.

But she didn't. Not because of some kind of integrity, just because there was so damn much to do.

* * *

Her name was East Smith, remembered Charlotte.

Looking out over the window as they circled above Zuni's central district, she saw only destruction and mayhem and chaos in the tattered ruined seams of what had once probably been a normal life. Buildings collapsed, apartment buildings with a wall blown out of them, and fires burning in the rubble visible from high in the clouds. The sound of gunfire and explosions as they swooped lower. Lower still, and she could see the bodies that littered the street, and there were hundreds.

The Report talked about a 'rebel situation'. This wasn't a situation, this was a bloody, bloody war.

"Flying landing," their pilot yelled. "We're touching the ground for less than ten seconds, you understand me, so one of you get those doors open, the other get her in, and then we get gone!"

A dozen blocks away, tantalisingly near to Zuni's only remaining airport, the otherwise abandoned street hosted maybe ten people gathered together in a crowd to say goodbye, and Charlotte knew that the pilot would use them as his marker of when to slow and when to accelerate.

"Cohen," Wren said quietly, and Charlotte turned to see what the other girl was gesturing to.

Stacked against the back wall of the plane were three submachine guns and a shoulder-fired missile canister.

"Expecting trouble, Mr Loss?"

"We're ready for trouble when it finds us, Lady Charlotte," the aide replied serenely, and then they hit the ground.

It was colder in Zuni than Charlotte had thought it could possibly be this far south in Illea, and she doubted their pilot had predicted this diffiulty. When they met the ice that glazed the road, the plane slid for several long, adrenaline-filled moments, during which Wren looked as though she would throw up, before their pilot righted them with a skill Charlotte couldn't help but admire, and they sped down the street at an astonishing speed.

They slowed suddenly, stopping for maybe a half of a second, and Charlotte leapt forward to pull open the door, without the time to even let down the steps before a slender figure broke from the protective shelter of her group and ran for the plane. There was a yell or maybe it was a scream or a sob from someone she had left behind, but she didn't look back.

East Smith leapt into the aircraft with a few light steps, and then the door was closed, and the airplane accelerated, and they were gone again, soaring over the wasteland of which Julien would one day be king.

More gunfire below and an explosion lit the sky.


	5. Chapter 5

**A few people have been wondering if I need a mean girl in this story, and I'd just like to explain something (nothing against the authors who ask that!)**

**I'm aiming for a far more realistic Selection, if that makes sense, and that means realistic characters - no-one ever thinks they are the mean girl, and everyone has a different view-point on who the bad guy is. Hence, all of the characters will have flaws and strengths, bad moments and good moments, and balance each other out thusly. This is why, although I emphasised Julien's charming persona in the first chapters, he acted a little spoiled and irritating in the last one - because, prince or not, protagonist or not, he's still a person and he's still only nineteen, and under a lot of stress at that.**

**So, here's another chapter! Some of the sections are not my typical quality, but I'm afraid I accidentally deleted some parts of it while writing, and had to rewrite from scratch, and I am not quite happy with it.**

**Once again, I'd love to hear from you - your thoughts, favorite characters, theories and so on!**

**Thanks for reading!**

* * *

Here's a secret Islana knew.

Prince Julien was in love.

Or at least, he had been.

He had been seventeen and she was sixteen and he had fallen so completely in love with her that it was inevitable that he would break something when he landed. Something like his heart.

Islana still remembered the girl's name. They had never been close friends, but they had been allies; fellow maids in a strange world of etiquette and manners and toil. They had joined the service within three months of one another and dealt with the worst possible jobs together - it was impossible not to form some kind of eternal bond with one another after dealing with unblocking the sewage tunnels on a sweltering August day, and so while they had never been friends, they had been maids together and sometimes Islana thought that was better than friendship.

She had been beautiful, Islana remembered, looking at the photos of the Selection spread out on the table. That had been the problem from the start. Beautiful in and out was always a problem.

She had been tall and willowy and lovely, with skin like a sepia photograph and eyes like a deer's and hair like a stormy day. And she had been kind and sweet, the kind of girl who made Islana laugh after a day's gruelling work until she couldn't stand, and who volunteered for every awful job so no-one else would have to do it, and who smiled and joked at that time in the morning when everyone else just wanted to die or crawl back into bed or maybe both.

Someone that beautiful always brought trouble with them.

* * *

Her name was Lani Watson and she was in no way prepared for the crowds that awaited her as her airplane descended to the red carpet.

After all of the secrecy and security, to land in the open seemed a little redundant, but Lani had no time to think of security measures as she came to the top of the steps. Everyone was cheering, clapping - she heard someone call her name and saw a sign brandished with her name on it. Somewhere, someone was throwig confetti. Ahead of her, another Selected was just getting into a car - they must have been scheduled to arrive immediately after one another.

She wondered how the last girl had won over the crowds.

Lani took a deep breath. One foot in front of the other, she reminded herself. Whatever you do, do not fall. Do not fall down the steps in front of everyone.

She wondered who would be watching this later. The prince, looking to see what the girls were like? Possibly. Her father, home from a long day labouring, and her siblings, eager to see their older sister? Almost definitely, and she wanted them to see her and be proud.

She let out the breath and started down to the ground. She was not an unfriendly girl, but she was a Six, accustomed to looking at the ground and saying nothing. Now, she couldn't help but look up, and she lost track of what she had intended to say as she saw the sea of people and all of them calling.

Some of them were brandishing posters, and Lani covered her mouth in shock to see how many of them bore her photo. The most popular girls so far were, without a doubt, the Baffin girl, Charlotte Cohen, Angeles' Eden Lamarie, and the girl from Waverly, Kalyana Khan. Her own face and name appeared maybe two-dozen times, almost as many as the Labradorean girl, Trinidad Mavuto.

Lani didn't care per se - she doubted the prince would choose according to who was popular - but it was still nice to have people calling to her, calling her name. She looked up and waved, and that got a scream of applause of the crowd, but that was it and then she was being helped into the car at the end of the carpet and her airplane taxied away, replaced immediately by another.

"I know," the other girl in the car said with a laugh. "It's over so quickly, isn't it?"

Lani glanced over at her fellow Selected, surprised - she had been expecting fights and bitchiness, like two alley cats scrapping in the streets. Not this - open friendliness from the outset. She let herself relax a little, not even considering a trap, and held out her hand. "It is. But I guess I'm not one for crowds. Lani Watson."

"Clementine Georges." The other girl reached forward and shook it, her long red and blue and green hair swinging over her shoulder. Her piercings caught the sunlight and the light fractured into a thousand tiny reflections. "Not sure I'm entirely ready for this, but never mind. Hey, even if I'm in for just a day, I hear they have great food here!"

Lani couldn't help but think of her mother's Italian cooking. She doubted there would be anything like the family _bavarese alle fragole_ at the palace, but she didn't want to appear negative in front of this new girl. "I'm sure you'll stay in for longer than that," was all she could think of to say, and Clementine laughed.

"Oh, I'm the type of girl you love or hate, so I doubt it. But hey - don't look so unhappy. The prince'll love you." The other girl teasingly took a conspiratorial look over her shoulder as though someone might be listening, and then leaned forward. "I heard he likes brunettes," she said, and flicked one of Lani's dark brown curls.

Surprise prompted Lani to speak without thinking. "Would you really marry him even if he only cared for your appearance?"

Clementine shrugged. "Well, I only care for his throne, so it's probably a fair trade." She caught sight of Lani's expression. "Don't look so scandalised! It doesn't exactly make me a bad person. I don't expect to fall in love on cue, you know. And I'd like to win, even if he turns out to be an air-headed idiot. Maybe a Five like me or a Six like you could do some good in the world."

"Queen America," Lani reminded this new, strange quasi-friend of hers. "Is a Five like you."

"There's no-one like me," Clementine said, straight-faced, and from anyone else, such a statement would have been boastful. "But you - you're half in love with him already, aren't you?"

"Is that a bad thing?"

"It's adorable," Clementine said firmly, then she laughed. "I suppose he is attractive. For a One."

The condescension with which she said that made Lani laugh out loud. "Shouldn't we be playing his part and he ours?"

"We play the parts we choose, dear Watson," Clem said with a smirk, and the two girls smiled as the door opened again and another girl slipped in - Lani wondered what had kept her so long.

She remembered this girl from the Selection, if only because she had been the only girl wearing a hijab, as well as the girl with the darkest skin. The Waverly girl, the fan favourite, Kalyana Khan, her white province flower pinned to the lower fold of her headscarf.

"Hey," Clementine said, and gave a quick wave as the new girl slid into the car.

"Hello," she said - her voice was very sweet, Lani thought, and she carried herself with a kind of quiet, careful poise, as though she were eternally atop a tight-wire. "It's lovely to meet you both."

That was all. She turned her attention to look out the window, and Lani and Clem exchanged looks - such stiff competition already?

Lani dismissed the thought as soon as it entered her mind. She was determined not to make enemies where there were none. Now that she looked closer, she could see that Kalyana Khan was not the type of girl to show her emotions in her eyes or face - her hands told her story, and they shook as she looked out the window.

She was as nervous as any of them, she just hid it better. She wasn't some abstract rival in a competition, she was another girl with a life behind her and dreams ahead of marrying a prince. They, all three of them in the car, shared that dream.

Clementine knocked on the partition between the passenger section and the driver's compartment. "Can we get some music back here?" she called lightly, obviously hopibg to defuse the tension that lingered in the awkward silence.

Silence continued for a long moment, and Clementine looked almost comically disappointed - Lani smiled, and Kalyana did not look away from the window, and none of them were expecting music to suddenly pour through the speakers, so they all jumped - even poised, elegant Kalyana, who put her hand over her heart as though she feared a heart attack.

"Ma'sha allah!" she said in surprise, speaking for the first time in a strange blend of a mostly Waverly accent with the New Asian stretched vowels, speaking quietly under the bass and drums of the music so that the other girls had to strain to hear her. "What kind of music is this?"

Clementine listened intently for a second. "Some kind of Atlins stuff. They use a lot of synthesizers for their music, not much singing or lyrics. They don't have the traditional songs from the external provinces like Whites or Carolina."

"You're a musician?" Lani asked, as though she expected it to be obvious.

Clementine grinned. "Artist, actually. But I dabble."

"And you?" Kalyana asked Lani politely. "You're a Six, aren't you?"

"That's right." Obviously, Kalyana had been doing some studying up on her new colleagues since the draw. "I'm a maid, actually." Lani was determined not to seem embarrassed or ashamed of her job, because she wasn't.

"I work in a restaurant," Kalyana admitted. It was with a hint of a smile and maybe a slight flush to her cheeks, and Lani was glad to have some kind of similarity with this beautiful, serene girl.

The low purr of the engine into life under the music quietened them. Clem looked questioningly to Lani. "There's room for four in here."

"Maybe there's been a delay," Lani said, trying to sound authorative. "The weather in Zuni and Paloma is absolutely awful recently, I heard. There'll be another car coming behind, I expect."

Kalyana nodded. "There's thirty five of us, right? That makes eight cars of four girls and one of three."

Clementine shrugged. "More room for us, I guess," she said, and propped her feet up onto the seat opposite her. Kalyana, sitting opposite Lani, arched one perfect eyebrow but said nothing.

"Hey, guys?" Lani said as the car pulled away from the crowds and another replaced it immediately. Both of the girls looked to her, and she smiled weakly.

"Good luck."

* * *

"Lady Tañdalğan is allergic to?"

"Shellfish, madam."

"Correct. And Lady Kalyana speaks..."

"Four languages, madam."

"Good. And Lady Katherin is employed as -"

"A tutor, madam."

"Hmm. And..."

"Poor Angie." Reesa's words broke Islana's train of thought and she turned away from the poor maid's quizzing from Klara, Silvia's formidable successor, to speak to the other girl. The elder maid was leaning against the counter in the kitchen, arms folded, trying not to look like she was enjoyed the spectacle.

"Rather her than me. Why do we need to know what kind of dances that Larson girl can do, or what the Watson girl's sister is called, anyway?"

Reesa shrugged. "So we can show them off best to His Majesty, I presume. And to ensure we don't kill anyone by giving the Honduraguan girl the Angeles' girl's sushi platter."

"That's an excellent thought. Reesa, try not to kill anyone. Tell the others too. I have enough to be doing without cleaning up your messes."

Reesa smiled for the first time in quite a while. "So why are you standing in the kitchen snooping on other peoples' misery?"

"Makes me feel better about my own. I may be bad, but I'm not _that _bad."

"I think you're going to go to hell, Islana."

"I'm _Miss Loss_ to you now, Rez. I'm moving up in the world." Islana straightened up and unfolded her arm, pulling the metal tray from Reesa's hands. "I'm going to go places."

"Yes. Maybe you'll someday even get to shine the spoons. And won't that be something?"

"You're too young to be so bitter, Rez." Islana hopped up onto the chair she had been leaning against to put the tray away - if there was one thing she disliked about herself, it was her cursedly short stature. "This is why I keep tall people around to do these kind of jobs for me. Where's Nani? Are the rooms in the north-west wings still not prepared for their ladyships?" She looked down at Reesa. "Don't suppose you'd check for me?"

"_He_'s in the north-west wing a lot lately, Iz."

Islana nearly sighed and then thought better of it. "Right. He's going to play havoc, I can tell. I think I liked him better when he was never around. Slept all day, out of the palace all night - much saner."

"I used to think he wasn't so bad," Reesa said slowly, as though she were admitting some terrible sin. "I used to think - you know, he was just misunderstood. That he was kind somewhere inside of himself."

"I think Lord Demetrius is perfectly capable of making himself understood," Islana said quietly. "Do me a favor, Rez, if you're going to fall in love with another member of the royal family, pick someone nice - like Julien or Madrigal."

"You think Julien is nice?"

"I _have_ to," Islana said with a sigh. "He's the _prince_."

* * *

Jesse leaned back against her seat and closed her eyes as the plane banked sharply and the sky rushed past her seat. "How do you do it?"

Cohen grinned. "Feeling airsick, comrade?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Jesse said, but this flying was like nothing she had ever experienced - all sharp turns and diving and weaving. When she had been shipped out to New Asia, their pilots had flown in damn straight lines, thank you very much. "Just wondering how you do this, day in day out. I'll be glad to see steady land when this is all over."

Cohen gestured to Jesse's hands, which held the armrests so tightly her knuckles had turned a sickly yellow-grey. Against the tan skin of her hand, wounds both fresh and semi-healed were apparent - cuts from knives, split knuckles and what looked like a bite mark. "I could say the same thing about you. Scars aplenty."

"It's what I do."

Cohen tapped the glass the same way Jesse had in Sumner, gesturing to the open sky beyond. "Well, I guess this is what I do."

"You're a braver girl than me."

"I'm a hundred feet up and sheltered behind a ton of metal. You run at people and get shot at. I'm not the brave one."

Jesse chuckled. "Oh, don't be modest. It doesn't suit you. I heard about the battle at Bombay."

Cohen's eyebrows rose. "You did?"

"Who didn't? And you expect me to believe you're not brave." She shook her head. "You're a bad liar, Lady Charlotte, I hope you realise that."

Charlotte laughed. "I do."

"Did you seriously -"

Charlotte raised a hand before Jesse could ask the question. "Before you say anything, I'm going to say yes. All of the stories going around, all the rumours... Most of them are true."

"Even the one with the fish and the lasso and the double-barrelled shotgun?"

"Haven't told that story in a while, but yes."

She smirked and Jesse shook her head and gently smacked Cohen's shoulder with the rolled up magazine she had been pretending to read. "I don't think the military likes liars!"

Behind them, where the other Selected and Mr Loss sat, there was only silence, but Jesse doubted that they had fallen asleep.

"War's over," she said suddenly, looking at Charlotte. "We're fighting for something new now."

"Are you fighting?" Charlotte's voice was mild. Jesse shrugged.

"The longer I stay at the palace, the better. Killing doesn't pay well."

Charlotte swallowed hard, her face losing the colour the cold had stung into it, and made a vague sound of agreement. Jesse glanced at her from the corner of her eye, but said nothing.

The plane rose higher, swerved sharply on a dime, suddenly dived low again. Jesse swore and reached for a paper bag to throw up in and Charlotte laughed at her new ally.

* * *

Her name was Eilinora Winslow, and she did not walk down the red carpet - she glided. She was a model, and a good one, and if there was one thing Eilinora knew, it was how to walk and how to charm.

She waved to the crowd and she called out thank-yous, and she smiled and turned her head so that the sun framed her face just right in the three-tenths of a second before a photo was snapped. She caught a bouquet of flowers that was thrown and blew kisses and laughed.

She was good with crowds, but not so good with people, she remembered as she found herself sitting into the car as the last person to finish.

The other two girls inside were plainer than the model, and neither looked too happy to be there or indeed have Eilinora there.

On the left, a slender girl with a childish roundness to her face and cornrows the colour of umber. She was one of the favourites to win, remembered Eilinora. Currentlu, she was about fifth on the list, tied with the Watson girl from Six. Trinidad Mavuto of Labrador.

On the right, a pale, bespectacled girl with shoulder-length brunette hair. Eilinora hadn't heard much about this girl since the Selection - obviously someone was flying under the radar. She wondered if this was some tactic of hers. What was her name? Kelsey Olsen, wasn't it?

She looked at the girls again. No, plain was the wrong word for these two, but neither seemed to know how to use the beauty that hung on them like ill-fitted clothing. A small, shameful part of Eilinora was glad for that - that for now, at least, she had some advantage.

She quashed that part of herself quickly and gave them both a smile. "What a rush! I wasn't expecting all of that. How are you two holding up?"

Trinidad Mavuto of Labrador just shrugged and watched her, making Eilinora feel like an insect under observation by some all-knowing scientist, and Kelsey Olsen made a non-committal sound, looking as though she wanted to be anywhere but there. Eilinora felt her face fall.

"Right," she said, and looked out the window at the crowds as the car pulled away and left them in the distance, and the silence swallowed her.

* * *

"I'm afraid we have to make a quick detour," the pilot said abrubtly as she stepped out from the cockpit, her brow furrowed by concern.

"Is something wrong?" Adalyn looked up, feeling worried. The entire flight just far had been quiet, almost a little dull after the the buzz and excitement of her going-away ceremony. She hadn't really expected to be entirely alone for the duration of the flight - alone with her thoughts of what awaited her at the palace, as well as wondering about the impromptu speech she had given at the podium. Had she come across right? Had she said the right things? Had the prince seen it, or would he have to wait until the Report that night? What would he think? "Did something happen?"

"Yes," the pilot said bluntly - if Adalyn had been hoping for empty, soothing words of consolation, she had chosen the wrong person to talk to. "Get your seatbelt back on, stay in your seat and keep away from the windows if you can. And don't worry."

Adalyn was not one to obey instructions. She began to worry.

"What happened -" Adalyn began, but before she could even finish her sentence, the pilot had disappeared back to the controls and Adalyn was left to pull back on her seatbelt and risk a quick glance out the window. They were coming down over a province she didn't recognise from sight alone - a wide expanse of flat grassland dotted with countryside houses, large and opulent, here and there. She had no clue where they were. The distinctive places were those in the mountains, like Sumner or Zuni, or the sea-side areas such as Baffin or Bankston. It could have been anywhere - all of the midland provinces looked the same, Sota and Carolina and Ottaro.

She couldn't think of any possible reason for them to be stopping over without warning. Was there some kind of danger around that she couldn't guess at? What other reason could they have for a detour? The rebels had never come as far north as the central provinces, not in large groups, but how many rebels did it take to shoot down a single plane?

Just one.

She moved away from the window then, just as the plane hit the tarmac of Midton Provincial Airport. The two pilots in the front seemed tense, but neither wavered for a second as the plane slowed and the pilot leapt to her feet to open the door and unfold the steps for the tall, aristocratic girl who was running across the runway, her perfectly curled ringlets whipping across her face. She ascended the steps quickly, and the pilot reached out to help her up into the aircraft, and the girl fell into the nearest seat as the pilot shut the door again and her copilot turned the plane almost immediately.

"Sorry about all of this, Lady Evangeline, Lady Adalyn," the pilot said as the other girl straightened herself and Adalyn sat up slightly. "I'm afraid there was a slight problem that necessitated our divergence from our usual path."

"What happened?" Adalyn asked again, and this time the pilot met her gaze and spoke truthfully.

"A government plane was shot down over Sota this afternoon, on its way to Midton." The pilot held up her hand at Adalyn and Evangeline's twin expressions. "There was no Selected on board. It was still on its way to pick up Lady Evangeline here. But we lost a good pilot, and an even better plane. Not to worry - Lady Katherin of Sota was picked up an hour before the plane went down. She's safe." There was a hint of bitterness in her voice that made Adalyn wonder if she had known the other pilot. How frivolous it must seem to this hardened woman - to lose a life over a glorified beauty pageant.

The pilot straightened her cap and nodded, as though she had guessed she had said too much. "We should be arriving in the capital in about an hour. Sit tight until then."

She disappeared back into the cockpit, to the controls, and Adalyn looked at the other girl with wide eyes. She remembered this one from the Report - Julien had smiled. Lady Evangeline of Midton, Two. "Are you okay?"

Evangeline nodded, swallowing hard and looking down at her dress. "Yes, I think so."

Adalyn held out a hand. "I'm Addie."

Evangeline just looked at the outstretched hand, looking a little like a deer caught in headlights. "Evangeline Jones-Fitzwilliam," she replied, and after a moment's long wait, extended her own hand. They shook. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

Adalyn wasn't really the type to read people - she was too emotional, too caught up in her own fairytale world for that. But she could tell when someone had had a rough time and this girl, ringlets and expensive clothes and all, had had a rough time.

She looked back towards the window as they taxied back down the runway and lifted off again into the sky.

They were going to be so late.


	6. Chapter 6

Islana was not beautiful.

She had always known this, but had never felt it as keenly as now, standing at the edge of a room full of beautiful people being made more so. Haircuts and highlights and makeup and clothes - Islana had always known the Selected had to be picture-perfect, but she hadn't realised it would take quite so much work.

A girl nearby shrieked as her stylist pulled a wicked-looking brush through her long blonde hair, and Islana cringed a little in sympathy, one hand going automatically to the cap that covered her own hair, held in place by a tenuous support system of bobby pins and tiger clips, and straightening it a little.

Klara looked stressed, even more so than she had in the kitchens, interrogating Angie. Every vein in her body stood out like a livewire, like she was a bomb ready to go off, so the maids stayed in their ranks and stayed quiet. They must have seemed an army - long rows and long columns of black and white uniforms and heads bowed.

Klara spun on her heel to assess them, then. "Junior maid Loss. You know your duties for this evening?"

"Yes, madam."

"And do your girls?"

Of course they did, they were Islana's girls and she looked after them. "Yes, madam." She waited.

"Well? Do enlighten me!"

Klara meant well, Islana knew. She just wanted everything to be perfect, even if it meant quizzing Islana for the fifteenth time over the colour of the tablecloths. She was not usually this crabby and snappish, but stress got to her and she tended to lose her temper at the most inopportune moments possible.

She would have made a terrible maid.

"As the other maids are assigned to the rooms and care of the Selected, we are to take over their duties in the kitchen and household. We are to make ourselves available to the Selected at any and all times for any and all tasks. We are to ensure the Women's Room is furnished correctly each morning and ensure it is in correct order each evening. We are to guide the Report crews around the palace, and make ourselves useful in any and all capacities."

Of course, Islana herself had one other duty to attend to, but she didn't mention it.

Klara nodded. "Yes. Very well. And your uniforms..." And then she was back down the ranks, ensuring each girl was correctly turned-out, that her cap was secured and her pinafore spotless.

Islana felt a bobby pin threaten to slip free and shoved it back into place as one of the Selected began to scream bloody murder at the stylist who had mistakenly scorched her scalp.

The next few weeks would not be pleasant for anyone.

* * *

Her name was Anabel Moritz and she could not help but stare out the window as the limo swung into the long, wide driveway of the palace. The walls that surrounded the estate were a pale yellow stucco and very, very high, with bales of barbed wire tangled along the top, just high enough that it would be invisible from most angles. Evidently, there were security concerns here also.

Guards, dressed in the blood-red exterior uniforms with guns in their arms, were placed on top at either side of the wide gate that swung open as the car approached. Inside the walls, tarmac blended seamlessly into a long gravel drive that circled an ornate marble fountain spouting crystal-clear waters.

The car swung in a large arc in front of the front doors, where a group of officials dressed in dark suits and grey ties awaited to welcome the Selected.

Anabel climbed out of the limo cautiously. Behind her, the other girls she had shared the car with, Maya Hartwick and Destiny Barrow, followed suit - the group had spoken little in the car, absorbed as each was in thoughts and dreams about the future. Silence had reigned, but nonetheless Anabel stayed close with them as they ascended the steps towards the officials.

"Lady Anabel, Lady Maya, Lady Destiny," the closest suited woman said, offering a greeting nod. "Welcome." She snapped her pocket-watch shut with a flick of her fingers - Anabel had never seen one of those in real life, outside of the old movies her father had brought home when he had been lecturing on ancient history at the Carolina University.

With barely more than a hello, one of the men and one of the women took Anabel by the arms and ushered her inside. Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed that Maya and Destiny were suffering the same fate. "So sorry to rush, miss, but your group is running late," one said.

"But then again," added the other. "Everyone is today. The first flight due in was delayed - Midston and Columbia. And that delayed everyone. So we really must rush you a little bit, miss. You're only the third group to arrive and we need to get ready for the next."

There was a third woman waiting in the corridor, tall and rail-slender, and she glanced up only briefly as they arrived. "I'll take them fron here," she said, and then snapoed her fingers in front of the girls. "Stay with me, pay attention. Let's go." She spun on her heel and walked away, and after a quick, startled glance between Anabel and Maya, they rushed to keep up, Destiny striding ahead with ease. The woman took a confusing path through the palace, one Anabel was certain she would never be able to recreate, calling out locations as they passed them. The dining room was to the right, she told them, and the Great Room was to the left. Anabel caught a glimpse of a generous, sprawling span of emerald green glass out the stained-glass doors at the end of the corridors, and she could see that Maya clearly wished they could stop there for the briefest moment.

Anabel was a Three, even if she didn't always seem so, and she had studied up on the majority of her Selection competition. She knew that Maya Hartwick had been a photographer when she was still a Five, and she could certainly see why someone might want to take photos of a garden that looked like that - the high midday sun beat down on the grass, rippling gently in the barely existent breeze.

Before Anabel could even process where they were going, the woman gestured the group into a huge, wide room full of crowds of bustling people. An entourage accompanying a tall, blonde girl across the room parted, and Anabel caught sight of the long rows of vanity tables with a girl at each one, a cloud of people hovering around them - adding the final touch to their nails, curling their hair to perfection, applying make-up with a feather-light touch.

On the other side of the room, directly opposite the mirrors, a small door led into an even more vast hall, filled with long racks of clothes.

And there were shouts and calls filling the air, all sorts of comments and remarks that Anabel would have found ridiculous only a few days again.

"You want to do what to her hair?"

"Ugh, that colour makes her look pasty."

"You want the blonde dye or the blue dye? Both?"

"Where is that stupid maid?"

A woman who had been conversing with a long line of maids, striding up and down the hall like a general before her legion, looked up when Anabel and company arrived and walked over with slow, measured paces to greet them. She was clearly in charge - authority exuded from her in waves.

"The name is Klara. We spoke on the phone," she said as a means of introduction, then immediately went to work. "First things first. We need 'before' pictures of all of you. Come over here," she commanded, pointing Maya to a chair in the corner in front of a backdrop and directing the other girls to wait by the wall until their turn. "Don't mind the cameras, ladies. We'll be doing a special on your makeovers, since every girl in Illea's going to want to look like you by the time we're done today."

Sure enough, teams of people were moving around the room with cameras and mics in tow, zooming in on girls' shoes, and interviewing them each in turn. Anabel watched the film crews while she waited, and watched the girls they spoke with. At the moment, the team nearest to Anabel were interviewing a girl Anabel recognised as Adalyn Larson about the sweet, 'natural' look she had chosen for the Selection - her hair was a pale blonde, and she looked radiantly happy and endearingly sweet as she spoke.

"Lady Anabel?" the photo crew called next, and Anabel looked up in surprise.

"Oh, uh, yes, me!"

"I know," the photographer said slowly. "Can you take your place, please?"

Anabel nodded and stepped quickly onto her mark. She looked up at the camera and was immediately blinded by half a dozen rapid-fire white lights as the photos were snapped.

"Thank you," the photographer said, sounding bored. "Next? Lady Destiny?"

Once the pictures were done, Kara began calling orders - her voice was quiet, cool and authoritative. "Reesa, take Lady Destiny to station one; Nani, take Lady Maya to five -and it looks like they just finished up at ten. Islana, Lady Anabel can go there."

It was a small, slight slip of a girl that Klara was speaking to - she wore the black and white uniform of the palace maids flitting about, and a dark cap covered her hair. She had a small, determined kind of a face, not a pretty face by any means, but set in irs features and striking. "This way, Lady,' she said, and her accent was soft and rounded at the edges.

Anabel did not like the look of the wicked scissors the stylist at ten wielded with ease, nor of the various plucking, curling and straightening implements that lined the table, but she took a deep breath nonetheless and followed.

* * *

Her name was Tañdalğan Xanşayim, and she had never felt more intimidated in her life.

Not when she stood upon a tightrope thirty feet from the ground. Not when she eyed a wolf warily from her caravan step. Not when she spun batons of fire about herself with frightening speed and skill.

No, what intimidated Tañdal was the short, dark-haired man behind her wielding a pair of straightening irons with terrifying efficiancy.

"So here's the thing," he said, and leaned heavily on the chair Tañdal sat in so that they were both reflected in the mirror together. It was a hard-backed torture device, was the chair, with an ornate seven on the back in gold leaf. A good omen, seven was meant to be. "We need to talk about your image." He was all business now, serious and grave as though lives depended on their next decision.

"My image?" Tañdal blanched. She hadn't given much thought to that. Surely she wasn't expected to change everything about herself when she had already gotten her place? Couldn't she just be Tañdal?

"What's our angle? How do we want to make you look? With that wild hair of yours, you could be quite the fiesty scrapper. Of course, if we accentuate your eyes, you could be the girl-next-door, if you want to go in that direction, we can play the whole thing down," he said matter-of- factly.

"I like the way I look now. Can't I leave it as it is?" She hated how weak and frail her voice sounded - where was the Tañdalğan Xanşayim who had crossed mountains and oceans to get to Illea, who made lions bow to her? She had left that girl back in Honduraguas, she thought, and made a quick, desperate bid to regain her confidence. She would not have an image. She would just be Tañdal. "I like my hair," she said slowly. "And I like my eyes. They're like my grandmother's. So no, we're not changing that. But I'm open to suggestions."

The man sighed and grumbled. "Oh, another individual. Fantastic. Just because it won Queen America her Selection guarantees nothing for you, missie, remember that. Some princes like the image more than the girl."

Tañdal remembered well. After all, she had learnt English from watching old Reports from the Federation archives, badly subtitled in Russian she could speak but not read. She remembered watching America's Selection with rapt fascination, kneeling on the floor of the family compound, listening closely for the faint remarks in the background of each interview to test her language skills. What was it that America had said?

Tañdal repeated America's words now. "I'm not changing everything about me to cater to some guy I don't even know."

"Fine, then." The man sighed and set to brushing Tañdal's long, wild brown curls. "We won't alter your... your image, per se. We'll keep you as you are - wild circus girl." If he noticed Tañdal's flicker of irritation at that description, he gave no indication. "But we'll absolutely have to enhance it, sorry to say. We'll need to polish you, clean you up, make sure that you shine in you being you." He patted Tañdal on the shoulder, more likely out of habit than any real kind of affection, and walked away, sending a group of women swarming her way.

In the brief moment between the stylist's departure and the beautician's arrival, Tañdal caught a brief glimpse of some of the other girls who had arrived. The room was maybe half-full, and the girl closest to her, in chair six, was the distinctive Clementine Georges - her now-trademark multi-coloured dye job had been washed away and reapplied so that now she bore purple and pink hair in long, straight lines to her elbow. Her piercings were still in place, but they were silver now rather than the cheap brass she wore in the Selection photos. Georges caught Tañdal watching, and smiled a little, despite the war her stylist was waging on her hair, before winking at her fellow Five. "You'll look great," she mouthed, and then winced and slapped the table in pain as her stylist triumphantly announced, "Got it!"

Tañdal wasn't entirely certain if the girl from Whites was being nice or just trying to hold her back in the competition through some kind of subtle sabotage. Tañdal had never been the best at manipulation, or at seeing through it. But she chose to take this at face value, because why not. "You too," she whispered back.

Tañdal hadn't realized that when her stylist had said "polish,"he meant it as literally as it could be taken. She was whisked away to another room, where the stylist had women scrub Tañdal's body until her dusty skin was the pale pink of an early morning sky and her tough skin was left raw and stinging. Then every exposed bit of painful, flushed skin was covered with lotions and oils that left the Honduraguan smelling like the hazel fay of her province and of comet orchid, which according to the girl who applied them was one of Julien's favorite scents - although how she knew that, Tañdal did not, and did not want to, know.

After they were done making the previously callused girl smooth and supple, attention was turned to her blunt, short nails. They were trimmed and buffed and polished, and the tough hangnails and tough skin that lingered around them were miraculously smoothed away.

Tañdal's favourite colour was an amber brown that matched her eyes, so that was the shade that was carefully painted onto her nails, now smooth crescents.

The team of people who worked on her nails left her for another girl, the shy-looking Evangeline of Midton, who had had her hair arranged into shiny bronze curls and looked a little younger than she actually was - clearly she had been talked into a youthful, sweet image.

It went against all of Tañdal's habits and inclinations to sit quietly in her chair, waiting for the next round of beautification, but that was what she did, waiting for the paint to dry and staring at herself in the mirror, hoping she had made the right choice.

A camera crew came past, zooming in on Tañdal's reflection in the mirror. "Don't move," a woman ordered. "Just look yourself in the eye, that's it. Are you disappointed? Surprised? Pleased? Show us."

Tañdal's gaze did not waver. Her expression did not change. The woman sighed, got her shot, and moved on.

Tañdal reached up to the hazel fay that was pinned to her collar and ripped it off, flinging the flower onto the vanity table.

She hated the smell of the stuff, anyway.

* * *

Her name was Eden Lamarie, and she did not often do as she was instructed, so when she was ordered to sit down and wait for her interview, she chose instead to remain standing, lounging against the wall, admiring the sheen of light on the silvery material of her new dress.

A woman soon arrived, walking up to Eden with authority in her steps and a clipboard of information in her hand, and asked her to be patient for a moment while her papers were found.

"What's this for?" Eden asked skeptically as she was handed a single sheet of paper with a long list of questions and answers on it, certain bits highlighted and underlined.

The woman sighed as though she had heard this question a million times before, and had given this speech as many times as it was possible to give a speech. "The makeover special, sweetie. We'll be airing one about your arrivals tonight, the makeovers are on Wednesday, and then Friday you'll do your first Report. People have seen your pictures and know a little bit about what was on your applications," she said as she located her papers and placed them on the top of her clipboard. Then she laced her fingers together, gestured for Eden to sit opposite her, and continued. "But we want to make them really pull for you." This, Eden could tell, was just another line given to every girl. If the Report wanted some kind of drama, then fine, she would give it to them. But they certainly weren't on the side of any girl here, and Eden was not the type of to be fooled.

The woman continued on, oblivious. "And that won't happen unless they can get to know you. So we'll just do a little interview here, and you do your best on the Reports, and then don't be shy when you see us around the palace. We aren't here every day, but we'll be around."

Eden nodded. "Fine," she said with a flick of her hair. She was one of the best known singers in Angeles, one of the most famous models in Illea, and she knew how to handle a camera and a crowd. She ran her fingers through her hair and then looked up and nodded, indicating that she was ready.

"So, Eden Lamarie, yes?" the interviewer asked just seconds after a red light lit up on the top of the camera.

"Yes." Eden let a smile spread slowly across her face like hot butter, the gesture turning just a little coy at the edges. "I guess that's me."

"I have to be honest, you don't look like you changed too much to me. Can you tell us what happened in your makeover today?"

Eden pretended to think. "They gave me a tan," she said with a slight smile. "I guess we won't be getting outside for much sunshine while we're here! And they cut my hair. Not sure I like that."

Eden had never cut her hair, or had her hair cut, before today. She had been so certain it would hurt, like getting a limb amputated, that she had been ready to scream when it happened. But she didn't tell the camera that.

"They curled my hair just a bit, trying to put some kind of life into it, I guess." She was being self-deprecating on purpose - her hair was always, and had always been, silky smooth and perfect. "And they covered me in some kind of orchid perfume. I smell like a bouquet," Eden continued. "Hope the prince likes a girl who smells like a vase of flowers!"

She laughed. "Oh, he couldn't possibly mind. And that dress really suits you."

"Thank you," Eden said, looking down at her new clothes. "They have some really wonderful tailors here at the palace, so every dress seems like so kind of work of art. It feels like a shame to wear them!"

"But you must be used to all of that," the interviewer said. "You're one of two professional models in the Selection. How has this experience been so far? Very similar to your life at home?"

Eden searched her mind for some way to answer the question without coming across as overtly boastful or proud. If there was one thing that would turn the nation against her, it was playing her cards too soon.

"It's enormously different," she said finally and firmly. "Modelling is a job, a career. I'm not up here because I care about the clothes we're going to get, or the way we'll get pampered. Like you said, if I wanted those, I could have stayed at home and avoided all the fuss!" She laughed and that hint of coyness was back, curling around her words. "No - this is different because it's a test of who I am, and who His Majesty will fall in love with. Modelling is no help. At the end of the day, the best Daughter of Illea is going to win."

She nodded. "And going on from that, how do you feel about your competition so far?"

Eden shrugged. "I haven't met many of them so far, but I think the prince is in for a difficult choice. Obviously, a few are a bit more likely than the others..." She let those words hang in the air, fully aware that everyone knew to what she was referring. "And I can't wait to meet the rest of them and size them up. I think I can give any of them a run for their money, though!"

"Mm-hmm," the interviewer said, and Eden knew she had seen through her answer but was saying nothing. "So how do you feel about the way your makeover turned out? Worried about anyone else's look?"

Eden considered that. To say no sounded boastful, to say yes sounded weak. She chose not to answer the second question. "My stylists did a great job, I think, for which I am absolutely grateful. I'm pretty happy with how it turned out, although I feel like I probably shouldn't have gone for the natural look." She laughed and gestured dismissively to her perfectly arranged hair, her carefully applied layers of make-up, her immaculate nails. "I'm pretty certain I look plain-as-could-be, but never mind."

She smiled and said, "All right, I think that'll be enough."

"That's all?" She hoped she had made the right effect in the little time she had been permitted.

"We have to fit thirty-five of you into an hour and a half, so that will be plenty, thank you."

Eden nodded and stood up, back to herself almost immediately. She did not thank the interviewer, she just walked away without a word and gestured a maid to her with a gesture. "Get me a drink," Eden said. "I don't really care what kind."

She hoped she had said the right things.

* * *

It was out the north-west corridor window that Angie saw them. The last of Selected, coming up the steps together, the two in front talking while the third drifted behind them.

Charlotte Cohen and Jesse Wren were both still in their Selected uniforms of white blouses and black pants and grey flowers, and it seemed like the two were friends and allies already. They spoke quietly, and although there were no officials there to greet them, so late were they to the palace, Charlotte led the way as the small group ducked inside the doors. The third girl was last, and she paused to look around, her dark thieves' eyes darting, before she followed.

Laughter trailed from the soldier girls.

How did people do that so quickly? Make friends, allies?

Angie saw this, and wondered how long any of them would last.


	7. Chapter 7

Islana had always been good at keeping screts, but this was an uncomfortable one to keep.

She hastily made her excuses once the girls' makeovers were complete and they had been shown to their rooms by Klara and her outside entourage. Reesa eyed her skeptically as Islana pulled off her apron and made a vague, official-sounding excuse about checking on the Selected and ensuring the rooms were fully catered to. A part of her felt bad for skipping out on work in this way – with more than a hundred maids indisposed attending to the Selected girls, the kitchen was under the most pressure Islana had ever seen and no one even had the time to ask her where she was going.

"Hope you're not going to try and _understand _anyone," Reesa said quietly from her working position next to him, and Islana eyed her, but said nothing as she hung up her cap and wound up her hair into a slightly looser knot. She checked her reflection in the microwave door, scraped back a stray strand, and then just gave Reesa a good-bye wave before she ducked out of the kitchen and jogged up the steps towards the main hall.

The second floor was dedicated to the Selection, even if and when there was no Selection in progress, and Islana was none too fond of any of them, so she took the back stairs up to the third floor and then used some of the smaller corridors – the ones without any offices or committee rooms on them – to find her way back to the spot where Julien had found Islana and Reesa after Reesa's run-in with Demetrius.

It was a small, cul-de-sac corridor leading to one of the side doors of the palace library, with a window-seat set far into the wall with curtains on either side – a good hiding place, in which she had found Madrigal sheltering from the world on more than one occasion.

Julien was the one waiting there now – still dressed, as always, in a crisply, sharp suit, and sitting just a little stiffly; feet flat on the floor, shoulders back, head bowed towards the ground. His dark hair was perfectly unperfect, and she guessed that, just like the girls, he had been busy doing segments for the Report that evening.

It was important that everyone was as jealous of the Selected girls as possible, after all.

But he looked up as Islana approached, and the smile that spread across his face was a warm, easy-going one that suggested a relationship between the two far closer than existed in reality. It was the smile he used for everything, as quickly and as easily as a weapon, and it came to his face so quickly and easily as to suggest it was natural.

But his eyes were the same as he flicked them up from the ground to observe her – sharp, keen, and cutting. She wondered if any of the girls had been subjected to it yet.

She shook her head. Of course they hadn't – why would she be here if Julien had already met the girls?

Better her than them. Islana was used to that gaze by now.

Islana folded her hands in front of herself, and stood straight. "Your Highness."

"Miss Loss." His voice sounded a little amused. "Dare I ask what you have for me?"

Islana made a face, almost without meaning to, and eyed him suspiciously. "Is this," she said slowly, debating her words carefully. "_Entirely _fair?"

"The Selection isn't fair," Julien said simply.

Islana nodded and unfolded her hands to pull at her skirt. "Right. Okay. Well-" She had to hesitate before she said anything further, debating what she did and did not know, what she should and should not say. "They're not _awful_," she said, and Julien looked as though he were tempted to laugh at the understatement.

"You have a favourite already?"

"Maids don't have favourites." Islana shrugged. "There's maybe fifteen, maybe twenty with personality. But that doesn't make a good queen."

Julien nodded. Islana wondered if it offended him that she thought he was in this because it was expected, and was privately a little glad if it did.

"Tell me."

Islana considered for a long, long moment. She was so unsure of what to say – she knew that most princes did not care for love, but she also knew that most princes did not care to admit it. She had to strike a balance between being fair to the girls and following the orders giving to her by the heir.

"Charlotte Cohen is popular, outside and inside the palace," Islana said honestly. "She has the support of the people, and she has proven herself to be a good, brave leader." Islana hesitated. "And she treats the maids with fairness. As does the other popular girl, Kalyana Khan. She is quiet and cautious, but she is sweet and kind and doesn't pretend to be something she's not."

"You say that like there's someone who does."

Islana sighed and somehow found herself sitting next to Julien, although at a very careful distance. "I hope you didn't have any plans today," she said. "Because if you want me to be your spy on the Selected, I'm goings to have a lot to say."

"That is why I chose you for this," Julien said with a slight smile. "You didn't hesitate to tell me off on Reesa's behalf, after all."

"I was certain you would fire me."

"No one," Julien said with authority and a smile. "Would fire you for anything you said about Demetrius. Or at least, I wouldn't. I know everyone's thinking what you have the courage to say."

But it hadn't been courage. It had been anger and protectiveness and an ill-timed, ill-considered gesture. But Islana didn't tell Julien that.

"In that case, I have _plenty_ more to say."

He laughed a little, and Islana could see then how poor Angrec had fallen so totally in love with him.

That was the other reason, of course. Because Islana had been Angrec's closest friend in the service, and they had not been close at all. Because she remembered Angrec, as no one but Julien seemed to. Because she had defended Angrec.

She had known, even then, even at such a young age, that love never ended well.

* * *

Her name was Maya Hartwick, and she was ready to go home already.

After the makeovers were completed, Klara gave the traditional tour of the floors relevant to the girls, which meant the third floor was mentioned only in passing reference to how unrelevant it was. Klara also laid out the ground rules that were typical to each Selection - no going outside in case rebels attacked, meetings with Prince Julien were to be arranged by Prince Julien, and the ways in which they were to entertain themselves during the day were severely, severely limited.

Many of the girls were surprised to hear that they would be on the next Illean Report - they would watch that evening's broadcast in the Women's room, together, before dinner. A few seemed nervous - Maya refrained for pointing out that they had all just filmed a segment for the Report themselves, and there was no point in coming off all shy now.

The girls were shown to their rooms, then, and instructed to prepare for the evening's broadcast and then for dinner - most of them seemed lost in one way or another, Maya included, unsure of what to do next or how to treat the maids which awaited them in each room.

Maya ended up paying little heed to the maids as she looked around her room although, as a natural Five, she was a little unsettled at their presence. She was simply too tired to protest their being there, or object to their helping her out of the brand-new dress she had put on only a half hour ago. She shooed them away hastily, wanting a space to herself where she could think and worry and be herself without fear of being gossiped about later in the kitchens.

The maids were reluctant to be rejected in such a forthright manner, but promised to call her for dinner. Maya couldn't even remember their names, but she thanked them whole-heartedly.

She searched for some looser clothes in the closet to sleep in, although every dress in the cupboard seemed to have some kind of silk or cashmere or fine, delicate embroidery. Evenually, she found a long plain dress and a pair of leggings so that she wouldn't feel too bare in a strange bed.

And what a strange bed it was! The coverlet looked like silk, although as a photographer rather than a seamstress, there was no way for Maya to be certain. The mattress was soft and plush, and the bed itself wouldn't have fit into Maya's bedroom at home, it was so large. Wrought-iron railings curled along the edges, and another silk ribbon held back the curtains that threatened the shield the bed from view - so it was a four-poster.

Everything in the room was gold and ivory and pearl. Her feet sunk into the carpet as she walked.

And even though she was absolutely exhausted, she found the time to walk to the window and look out onto the gardens below, and the way the light played on the flowers. She wished for her camera, and then she wondered if she should wish to go home, because she had no idea what to expect the next day from the prince – or anyone else, in fact.

She made it back to the bed right before sleep overtook her, and darkness covered her eyes.

She really hoped the maids would be true to their word.

* * *

Charlotte lay on her bed for the entire rest time they had been allocated, staring at the ceiling in silence, tracing the contours and scars of the building. She just lay there, still. It could only have been a few moments before the maids tapped on her door quietly and then, finding no answer, peeked inside – she still remembered their names, but not which were which. There was a Sarah, a Jess and a Petra, but they were all so anonymous and identical and grave-looking in their matching black and white uniforms that Charlotte felt like she was looking at the invading force of some foreign power.

Charlotte sat up and, seeing the maids' eagerness to help, she allowed them to help her dress – a part of her privately thought she might need the help, unused as she was to the fancy dresses and corsets and skirting that came with these strange Palace clothes. She may have been a Two, but she was a soldier Two, and they were a different breed from the models and celebrities. The only time she had dressed ip at home was for the socialising parties her father toted her to, or the award ceremonies at which she had been awarded medals.

Her wavy copper hair was brushed to within an inch of its life and then arranged in a delicate, purposefully messy bun so that strands fell to frame her face. The dress, which she guessed had been created by the maids along with all of the other clothes in her brand new wardrobe, was a simple white sundress that came to just above her knee, the top a little tighter, the skirt light and flowing. Charlotte was a little irritated to find that they expected her to wear a delicate pair of white heeled sandals – "To dinner?" she asked incredeously, and the maids responded with a blank look that promptly turned to horror when, after checking herself in the mirror, Charlotte turned to pick up her flying jacket.

"Miss, you can't –"

"I'll be cold," Charlotte protested, but that only served to irritate one of the maids – she guessed it was Petra.

"The palace," she said. "Is not cold. The palace is never cold. We do not allow the palace to become cold."

Charlotte blanched a little. "My apologies. But all the same, I'd feel more comfortable with the jacket."

Sarah looked as though she would say something, but Jess spoke over her. "Relax. It's just a casual dinner, and it isn't as though Prince Julien will see her with it on. If he does," she added to Charlotte. "it's only your own chances you're hurting."

Klara knocked on Charlotte's door promptly at six to take her and her three neighbors – Talyah, Rosalyn and Clio - down the hall. Charlotte hadn't been happy to find that her room was on the corridor that seemed to be the main thoroughfare for traffic through the second floor. Wren had received a room down a much smaller corridor, with only one other neighbor next to her.

Charlotte, Talyah, Rosalyn and Clio waited in the foyer by the stairway for everyone to come and then marched down to the Women's Room. Jesse was somewhere in the middle of the pack, next to a small girl with wild, curly dark hair that Charlotte remembered as having the very strange name of Tañdalğan, and she managed to weave her way through the crowd so that she could walk next to them.

The sound of thirty-four pairs of heels on the marble stairs was the music of some elegant stampede. There were a few murmurs, mostly between girls who seemed to have already made friends, but most of the Selection remained silent. Charlotte noticed the closed door of the dining room as the group passed, although there was little sound from within. Was the royal family in there now? Perhaps taking in one last meal as the five of them, before the Selection took over their lives and a new girl joined their ranks?

It seemed strange that the thirty-five of the Selected were the guests of the royal family, but had yet to met a single one of them in the flesh – were they planning on hiding for the entire ordeal?

The Women's Room had changed little since the makeover had taken place there, although the vanity tables and racks of clothes had all vanished. Now tables and chairs dotted the room, along with a carefully coordinated array of comfortable-looking, plush couches. Jesse caught Charlotte's eye, and Charlotte inclined her head towards a nearby couch. They sat down there together, while Tañdalğan moved to share a couch with Adalyn Larson and Clementine Georges.

"Quiet, quiet!" Klara called, and Charlotte noticed again the array of maids standing quietly against the back wall – fewer now, but enough that the Selected would never want for anything. "The Report will be on now, and then we will go to the dining hall for dinner. Please be respectful of the other girls and speak quietly."

The television screen flickered into life, and the anthem played. Charlotte found herself tucking her legs up under herself to make herself more comfortable and looking around to observe the other girls more than the Report itself.

King Maxon spoke first about the escalating rebel situation in the southern provinces – no mention was made of the shot-down plane Charlotte had heard rumours of, and she noticed for the first time how little the Report left out. Zuni was, according to the King, compromised by the riots and raids – Charlotte would have called it a war-torn shell, personally. She wondered how they would show the farewell ceremony given to the Zuni girl – the nonexistent goodbye.

Then there were the financial updates on the newest projects and details on the drafting of the treaty with New Asia. These reports were met with quiet chatter from the girls, a little laughter as one or two made friends and traversed the treacherous waters of friendships and alliances.

And then Gavril Fadaye appeared on the screen, his trademark smile in place, and the entire room went silent as the footage played.

* * *

"I didn't know his most royal of highnesses had a brother."

A slight smile from him, almost amused, almost predatory.

"What makes you think I'm his brother?"

"Lucky guess."

"Are you lost?"

"I'm looking."

"Looking for what?"

"Haven't decided yet. I'll know it when I find it."

"Well, you found _me_."

Her first smile, a wry creature that turned up at the edges and gave her eyes a sly, considering kind of a look.

"I guess I did."

* * *

Her name was Kalyana Khan, and she kept her head down at dinner.

She hadn't expected the Report to be quite so favourable to her – they had spoken of her kind touch, and the 'clear' inspiration she drew from Queen America in her actions and image. Kal had never before considered that she was working towards any sort of an image, and she personally though that many of the other girls had made an even better impression than she ever had. Like Adalyn Larson, who had spoken to eloquently – at least in the mind of a decidedly unverbose person like Kalyana – to the crowds.

Or what about Rosalyn Akerman, who had been so kind to the crowds and talked for so long with so many of them, or Katherin Matthews, who had such a steady, searing gaze that she seemed to scorch anything she looked at? Why wasn't the beautiful Eilinora Winslow a 'firm fan favourite'?

Why was Kal the only one with a target painted on her head?

That same report had pontificated at length on Charlotte Cohen, Eden Lamarie, Trinidad Mavuto and Anabel Moritz and their own popularity – why were none of them seemingly affected? In the Women's Room, sandwiched between Evangeline and Kelsey Olsen as she had been, it was easy to pretend to be brave – her hijab hid the side of her face from most casual observers, and she could just sit straight and stare ahead and pretend that she had heard and seen nothing out of the ordinary on the Report. Having even a completely silent Evangeline and Kelsey on either side of her had been some kind of a shield from the looks thrown at her by one girl or another.

Now, she did not have that privilege, so she kept her head bowed, and tried not to notice the looks Belle Clarke shot her from across the table, or the way Tañdalğan sat just that bit further away from Kalyana on her right side, as though seeking to avoid being contaminated by some kind notorierty. Even the previously kind enough Clio Nightingale looked unhappy at Kalyana, eyeing her suspiciously as though she was planning something dastardly and underhanded. Lacey Greggs and Claire Donnelly, the two girls a little further away, said something under their breath and gestured to Kalyana with twin smirks.

Kalyana jabbed half-heartedly at the steak and onions in front of her, silently wishing for the beef karahi that her father would make in their restaurant at home when he had finished work, served with freshly made tandoori naan and more spices than Kalyana could name. No one else seemed to have the same compunctions about the food, except perhaps Tañdalğan, who had such a Russian Federation name and a Central Asian Republic accent that she had to be foreign, like Kalyana.

"What I wouldn't give," Kalyana said quietly. "For a plateful of sindhi biryani right now."

Tañdalğan overheard, and Tañdalğan smiled, and for the briefest moment Kalyana didn't feel so awfully bad.

She risked a quick look around the room, ensuring it was measured and betrayed no hint of anxiety. Evangeline was just as withdrawn and quiet as Kalyana, risking a quick glance up at Kal through her eyelashes and the ringlets that swung over her face. Evangeline shot Kal a sympathetic look, and Kal returned it.

Charlotte Cohen and Adalyn Larson were sitting across from one another on the other side of the room, and Jesse Wren sat a little further down, leaning over Jennifer Karrs to say something to Adalyn that made her and Charlotte laugh. Elizabeth Hancock and Belle Clarke were having some kind of debate that necessitated gesturing forks and raised eyebrows, while Olivia Trent watched them suspiciously as though she expected them to stab her in the back at any second with one of the aforementioned forks.

Kalyana was on the verge of making her excuses to Tañdalğan in the hopes that she could slip away to her room and recuperate from the day's insane rush and craziness. Dinner was nearly over, anyway. But before she could, the doors to the dining hall swung open, and a boy strode in.

It took her a moment to realise it was Prince Julien.

He was, Kal realised only now, ridiculously good-looking. He had the kind of chiselled features she hadn't known existed in real life – cheekbones and jaw sharp as a sabre, chestnut hair the colour of a sun-drenched forest, and a relaxed, open smile that he directed at each girl in turn.

"Sorry to disturb you all," he said, and looked around the room. "I know I'm not meant to see or speak to any of you until tomorrow, but I just wanted to get to know a few of you. Could I ask a few of you to stay behind to chat to me a little while?"

He was so unformal that it had to be an act, Kalyana realised. So relaxed she thought it had probably been rehearsed. And she saw the way he held his body, so open as to be tense.

He rattled off a list of names, seemingly off-by-heart – did he know them all already? – and Kalyana wasn't sure whether to be relieved or disappointed that her name was not among them. She didn't like the idea that the prince didn't want to get to know her, but at the same time, she was so very exhausted that she found it difficult to imagine she would make any kind of good impression on him if she had to speak with him now.

And she could see the suspicious looks in the eyes of the girls who had been named, and those who had been not, unsure which was the better situation to be in and jealous of whatever situation they were not in.

Eventually, twenty girls rose and left.

Elizabeth Hancock, Tañdalğan Xanşayim, Belle Clarke, Lacey Greggs, Kelsey Olsen, Destiny Barrows, Jasmine White and eight others stayed in the room.

By the next day they were all gone.

Twenty girls remained. The Selected had been nearly cut in half, and the first day had not yet even begun.

* * *

_**Remaining Selected - 20:**_

Charlotte Cohen

Evangeline Jones-Fitzwilliams

Eden Lamarie

Katherin Matthews

Eilinora Winslow

Jesse Wren

Kalyana Khan

Clementine Georges

Lani Watson

East Smith

Adalyn Larson

Clio Nightingale

Anabel Moritz

Trinidad Mavuto

Kelley Winston

Danielle Monroe

Sabine Biblioson

Maya Hartwick

Rosalyn Akerman

Elena Underwood


	8. Chapter 8

**Reviews are appreciated - the longer and more detailed, the better! It's your comments and reviews that keep me updating at this speed, which is absolutely incredible for a procrastinator like me. So please, do continue to tell me your interpretations of the characters, who you want to win, what you think will happen, your theories, and what you think so far! Critique, especially the constructive kind, is greatly appreciated!**

* * *

Islana was an invisible sort of a girl, as far as girls went, and she saw everything.

* * *

The mood at dinner that evening was almost morosely subdued - not at all the kind of atmosphere one would expect at the beginning of the Selection, which was usually met with some kind of joy from the people involved.

The only people who seemed possessed of a remotely cheerful mood were the eternally oblivious Xandra and the typically sanguine Demetrius, who probably wouldn't have taken notice of what was going on even if Julien had dropped dead on the other side of the table. America and Maxon sat at the head of the table, and Julien wondered if his mother was remembering her own first day at the Selection, and if the idea of the Selected in the palace brought back memories - pleasant or unpleasant?

Madrigal was quiet, poking gently at her food as she waited for someone to speak. Julien, for once, was glad of the silence - it gave him the chance to consider the information Islana had early confided in him and decide what to do next.

Was he really going to eliminate a girl without having even met her? A girl who on paper and in description irritated him might captivate him in person, and the opposite was true also. What if he eliminated a girl he would have fallen in love with immediately?

He thought again of the girls Islana had spoken to him of, and wondered for not the first time why he cared for her opinion at all.

There was the other side of the battle that was being waged in his mind, and that was how this Selection was going to appear to Illéa. He had gone to pains not to allow his mother's words to visibly affect him, but now he was concerned as to how each of his decisions would be received by the people.

His decisiveness was part of the entire test that was the Selection in its entirety - to let the event drag on was a bad sign, a sign of potential bad leadership, but at the same time, too hasty a decision may seem ill-advised.

It was a balancing act, and Julien didn't know which way to lean.

He had to play an angle, and it was America's words that gave him his next thought - the Selection, as the girl named Adalyn had said, was a chance for the people of Illéa to believe in fairytales, and every good fairytale had a whirlwind love-at-first-sight relationship. Islana had echoed this idea - that just as hoe during his father's Selection, the nation had needed to know their princess had the 'common touch' to relate to the people, now it was clear the nation needed something, a fairytale story, a happy ending, to believe in.

"To distract them, you mean."

"You said it, your highness, not I."

In truth, a part of Julien wanted to get this Selection over with. He knew there was every chance that he would, despite his mother's reassurances, end up with someone who merely tolerated him and loved the throne.

And a very large part of him thought that was entirely preferable to actually falling in love with someone.

He cast a quick glance at Demetrius, who had eaten absolutely nothing and was considering his glass of vodka with the erudite consideration most people reserved for complicated theoretical astrophysics. Julien was surprised he had shown up at all, to be honest, and he hoped that he had not met any of the Selected - what kind of an impression would he have on them, dressed as he was in a suit that may have been neat and clean maybe two years ago. Xandra, sitting next to him, was eating his steak, but Demetrius didn't seem care, just steadying the girl as she threatened to topple off her chair.

"Is everyone ready for this?" Maxon said finally, after silence had settled over the family for the duration of the entire dinner.

"Absolutely not," Julien said, and Madrigal laughed a little.

"You haven't even met the girls yet," she said with a slight smile. "Trust me, you'll be fine."

"It's going be intimidating as anything," Julien pointed out. "I know I'm going to mess up the first time I meet them."

Maxon smiled slightly. "Oh, it wouldn't be so bad. The Selected are like snakes." At America's astonished, remonstrative look, Maxon hurried to finish his sentence. "They're more scared of you than you are of them."

There was a pause.

"Do try not to use that line on the Selected, brother," Demetrius said finally with a slight smile. "If they don't hate you already, they will then."

"You'll be meeting Prince Julien in the morning, and you'll want to look your best," Klara instructed. "He is someone in this room's future husband, after all."

* * *

Her name was Rosalyn Akerman, and the next morning, as news of the girls' departures filtered down through the ranks of the Selected, she got ready for her first true day as a Selected, the day that she could finally meet Julien and really get a good feel for him.

She had had a crush on him for as long as she could remember, even if that was just watching him on the Report each week and wondering why none of the boys in her school looked like that. She wanted to impress, even if she didn't know who – the prince, the other Selected, herself or Illea? Maybe all of the above.

She chose a mint green, full-sleeved dress for her first day, one with a skirt slightly shorter than she was entirely comfortable with and a high sweetheart neckline. She had considered choosing a longer dress, but she absolutely adored how this one shone in the wan light as she moved, revealing tiny sparkling lights within the fabric, and the way it clung to her lean build so that it made her look almost as slender as Charlotte Cohen or Clementine Georges. The maids had made the dress for her, and she thought it was one of the most beautiful garments she had ever seen.

She sat down then, as the maids began to straighten her usually tight curls of hair and paint her freckles with foundation, and allowed herself to relax and listen to the maids speaking quietly to one another. One of them, Winnie, was the youngest of the maids Rosalyn had so far met, and her inexperience showed in her entire demeanour – every so often she would almost jump with excitement and try to whisper some piece of gossip to one of her colleagues, who would hastily hush her lest Rosalyn overhear.

The final touch to Rosalyn's entire outfit was a delicate flower necklace that drew attention to her long, porcelain neck, and a pair of earrings that matched both her eyes and the dress.

She had thought that it had taken her a very long time to get ready for the day, but as she followed the eldest of her maids to the upstairs foyer where the group had assembled the previous day before dinner, she was surprised to find that the entire place was empty but for a small, dark-haired girl Rosalyn remembered as having the unusual name of Trinidad. Her cornrows had been replaced by a long, fat braid, and she wore a periwinkle-blue gown that covered her knees, and Rosalyn abrubtly felt very, very underdressed and ugly next to her.

Rosalyn sank down onto one of the small sofas to wait for the other girls, sensing that Trinidad had no desire to talk. Slowly, the other girls began to trickle into the foyer, and with each one, Rosalyn began to feel smaller and smaller.

Every one of the girls looked phenomenal. They had their hair pulled up in intricate braids or curls, away from their faces. The makeup was meticulously done, dresses pressed to perfection.

Rosalyn had thought that her dress was beautiful, and now that she thought about it, she still did, but as she looked around, she could not help but compare the relative simplicity of the garment to the veritable gowns that everyone else wore.

And everyone else was taking this day very seriously. Kalyana Khan sent an askew glance at Sabine Bibloson, clearly comparing their respective looks. Eilinora Winslow and Kelley Winston walked into the foyer seperately but caught sight of each other at the same time, and both turned back around immediately to change. Everyone wanted to stand out, and they all did in their own ways. Even Charlotte Cohen, who still wore the leather flying jacket Prince Julien had given such a funny look to the previous evening. But some girls were like that, and they could carry anything off - Clementine Georges wore a print scarf with her sundress, which would have looked garish on anyone who wasn't the dye-haired troublemaker, and Lani Watson wore a tiny silver tiara in her hair without seeming tacky.

Everyone here looked like a One, even Adalyn, and that was a strange feeling indeed.

Klara arrived exactly at the agreed meeting time of ten a.m., long after most girls had arrived, but even then everyone still had to wait for Eden and Evangeline, whose tiny figure meant that she needed to have her dress taken in twice by her maids in the same morning.

Rosalyn couldn't help but take a look around the group once everyone had arrived. It was very strange to realise that if the competition continued at this pace, the Selection would be over in two days - hardly enough time to fall in love with anybody.

She had barely spoken to any of the girls who had been eliminated, had received only the briefest of glimpses at them before they left, and wondered how they would do now. How embarassing it must be to leave on the very first day - only hours after bidding goodbye at the farewell ceremonies. She couldn't imagine how it must feel to have to face your province and admit you had lasted five hours at the palace - maybe less.

At least, even if she was eliminated today, Rosalyn would not be the first to leave. She had been so worried about that.

Once the girls were all assembled, everyone started to move toward the stairs. There was a gilded mirror on the wall, and everyone all turned to take one last peek as they descended, almost as though they didn't realise everyone else was doing the exact same thing also. It wasn't exactly subtle.

Rosalyn caught a glimpse of herself next to Adalyn and Elena, and was grateful to see that she wasn't as horrendously outclassed as she had felt in the foyer - she felt that she was very nearly as pretty as either of the girls on either side of her, and felt a little securer as she descended the steps.

Rosalyn felt that she had compromised little about herself during the make-over. She had, of course, capitulated to her stylist's requests for an image, a style, a persina to project to the people, and so somehow Rosalyn had found herself inhabiting the two-dimensional role of the 'nice girl'. Her curls had been straightened into non-existence, and an eternal blush, fake of course, stained her skin.

Rosalyn followed the group downstairs, half-expecting to be taken into the dining room, where they had been told they would be eating. But the doors to the room were firmly shut, and the doors to the Great Room were wide open, manned by two uniformed guards. Rosalyn couldn't help but gasp as they entered the Great Room, and she heard her reaction echoed my several of the girls behind her - Clementine let out a low whistle and Clio's eyebrows disappeared into her hairline. It was like a three-dimensional piece of art - the floorboards were the most highly polished makassar ebony across which light oozed like honey. Delicately wrought golden arches linked the marble pillars that supported a roof heavy with decoration, calligraphies and silks and mirrors so that when Rosalyn looked up, she could see all of the girls reflected back at themselves. The walls were encarved with gold and silver, and lanterns hung in the air without visible support, some kind of technological marvel that cast warm light across the room.

Individual tables and chairs had been set up in rows around the room, with fine plates and delicate glasses and shining silverware placed appropriately. Even as a Five, Rosalyn could admire all the work that had gone into this all, and admired the maids that made up the palace staff for not the first time. To her slight disappointment, there wasn't any food, though. Not even the optimistic trace of a scent.

In the front corner, tucked away in a small nook, Rosalyn noticed a small set of couches that had been set up, close enough to suggest intimacy.

A few cameramen and women, stationed around the room, filmed the girl's arrival, and upon spotting them, Rosalyn tried to subtly straighten her shoulders and walk that bit more elegantly, trying not to make it obvious.

The girls flooded the room, eyeing the tables as though there was some inherent advantage to be found in one or the other. There were no place cards to denote where the girls should take their place, so it was Eden Lamarie who took the first move and sat at the table closest to the camera crew. She wore a scarlet, off-the-shoulder dress, and offered her bare neck and collarbone to the cameras as she turned to speak to her neighbor, arching her head so that her hair fell judt right.

Rosalyn took the first seat that presented itself - Lani Watson sat on one side, Jesse Wren on the other, and Danielle Monroe was in the row in front of her.

It seemed like most people had made at least one ally, just as Charlotte had with Jesse, or Kalyana with Evangeline. Lani had chosen a seat beside Rosalyn after careful consideration, so she presumed that there was some kind of a game or request going on here - Lani offered Rosalyn a quick smile, but said nothing.

Maybe she was upset over the news reports last night. Rosalyn was the kind of eternally sunny girl who didn't really mind that she had featured only briefly in the Report, but she could see how it would hurt someone. Or maybe it was just Lani's nature.

"Lani, I absolutely love your dress."

"Oh!" She smiled, and looked at Rosalyn, who was relieved to realise the girl had only just been thinking. "Oh, thank you." Both girls checked to make sure the camera crews were at a sufficient distance. Not that this was private, but who wanted them around for everything? "One of my maids made it for me herself - none of my embroidery is nearly as fine, but I'm hoping to persuade her to teach me. But look at yours! How long must it have taken you to get ready?" Rosalyn sensed that the other girl was nervous, and so was speaking more than she would normally have.

She didn't want to answer honestly, lest it sound proud. "Oh, I couldn't sleep, so I ended up trying a lot of things on and off."

"I know - it's so quiet here all the time, and it's such a strange place. I couldn't sleep at all either, so I ended up looking at all of my clothes and seeing what the designs are like." Lani laughed quietly, and then looked worried. "You don't think the tiara is a bit much? I wasn't going to wear it, but then I thought my family might see me in the Report - plus, who knows how long any of us will stay?"

That was funny. Lani had seemed quietly confident from the very beginning. With her polite demeanour and sweet smile, she was prime princess material, especially since she seemed to have a lot in common with Princess Madrigal herself. It seemed strange that she would doubt herself.

"Hello again, ladies." Klara's voice was sudden and sharp. "I do hope you all had a restful first night in the palace, because now our work begins. Today I will begin to instruct you on conduct and protocol, a process that will continue for the duration of your stay. Please know that I will be reporting any missteps on your part to the royal family."

Lani and Rosalyn exchanged concerned looks, expressions mirrored by several of the girls around them.

"I know it sounds harsh, but this isn't a game to be taken lightly. Someone in this room will be the next princess of Illea. It is no small task. You must endeavor to elevate yourselves, no matter your previous station. You will become ladies from the ground up. And this very morning, you will receive your first lesson."

Klara began to walk as she spoke, each step gliding, her back as straight as a rod and her eyes like twin coals.

"Table manners are very important, and before you can eat in front of the royal family, as you will this evening, you must be aware of certain etiquette. The faster we get through this little lesson, the sooner you get to have your breakfasts, so faces forward, please."

She began explaining how the girls would be served from the right, which glass was for what beverage, and to never, ever reach for a pastry with theirr hands. Always use the tongs. Hands were to rest in their lap when not in use, napkin draped underneath. None of the Selected were to speak unless spoken to. Of course, they could talk quietly to their neighbors, but always at a level befitting the palace. She eyed Clementine and Eden seriously as she gave that last note.

Klara was about to go on when there was a sharp knock at the doors, which swung open. Two guards stepped away, and in came Prince Julien.

* * *

_**Remaining Selected - 20:**_

Charlotte Cohen

Evangeline Jones-Fitzwilliams

Eden Lamarie

Katherin Matthews

Eilinora Winslow

Jesse Wren

Kalyana Khan

Clementine Georges

Lani Watson

East Smith

Adalyn Larson

Clio Nightingale

Anabel Moritz

Trinidad Mavuto

Kelley Winston

Danielle Monroe

Sabine Biblioson

Maya Hartwick

Rosalyn Akerman

Elena Underwood


	9. Chapter 9

**Thank you all for all your wonderful reviews - keep them coming, they're what keep me inspired! So please, do continue to tell me your interpretations of the characters, who you want to win, what you think will happen, your theories, preferred POVs, guesses as to who Demetrius' mystery girl is or should be, and what you think so far! Critique, especially the constructive kind, is greatly appreciated!**

**sorry to the creators of the eliminated girls - but I do have plans to bring them back in some capacity later in the story, so even if your girl is gone, please continue reading!**

* * *

Islana was displeased, but not particularly surprised, to enter the kitchens the day after the Selection had begun and find a veritable civil war brewing, like storm clouds gathering on the horizon.

"Careful," Jess said quietly as she and Islana met in the cloakroom to put on and perfect their uniforms before heading to their work for the day. "There'll be a mutiny yet."

Sabotage, of course, was what the maids were worried about, and they had good reason for it - less than five hours into the competition, without the prince having met a single girl, fifteen of the Selected had been sent home and that was that. That meant sabotage or some kind of a spy. The fact that one of those fifteen had happened to beat her maid bloody with a glass vase beforehand was just the cherry on top.

"Have you seen Qalu's face?" Islana asked Litta, who was Katherin Matthews' maid. "Has she come in yet?"

Litta mimed a line down the side of her face, from cheekbone to lip. "It's not as though Qalu needed any help smiling," she muttered darkly.

"And now she's never going to stop," Jen snapped, slamming down the tray with which she had carried down the coffee cup's from Trinidad Mavuto's late-night drink. "Qalu was the sweetest of us. She wouldn't even lift her hand to defend herself, did you know that? She just screamed and cried until Harrison came prince should have cut off her head, that Greggs girl. Or maybe we should have. Before she left."

Jen was... hot-headed, but none of the girls in here were going into this with cool blood.

The anger was hot because it was fresh, and it was fresh because the maids expected this kind of treatment from Demetrius and his ilk and it was a surprise to have it come from a supposed _lady_.

"As if the prince knows," Sarah opined. "If it wasn't a Selected who got hurt, then none of the royals care. You know that, Jay."

"Did anyone actually report it to someone higher up?" Olivia piped up. "Julien's a prince, yes, but he can't know everything." But then, Olivia was sweet on Julien. She would have said anything to defend him.

"Qalu's not the type to report," Angie said. "On anyone. She's going to come in this afternoon with her face like mince-meat and claim she walked into a tree or something."

Islana glanced up through her eyelashes. "We're everywhere," she said. "We're part of the furniture. To that girl, hitting Qalu was no different from kicking a chair or overturning a table."

"Bit more permanent." Petra said it without rebuke.

"Aye, but Qalu's strong."

"It's the sabotage we have to worry about," Sarah said then, and Islana shrugged and turned away, because the Selection was not her business unless Julien told her that it was.

* * *

"I think this is yours."

A pause.

"It isn't."

Another pause as his smile slips from teasing to wry self-deprecation.

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"Are you quite certain?"

She laughed.

"I'm not sure whether to be flattered or insulted your excuse to come and see me was so flimsy."

He smiled.

"Is this how you charm all your girls, your highness?"

"I'm '_your lordship_', actually."

"I can see why you're so popular with the women."

"If I were you, I would choose the flattered option."

"An excellent point. After all, you're out of my league."

"Not anymore."

That was right. She was a Selected now.

She put a hand on his chest and pushed him from the door and he let her, his eyes never leaving her, that same wry, predatory smile he had first greeted her with still on his face.

"I don't suppose midnight wall might take your fancy."

"Good night, Demetrius."

"Sleep well," he said, and she shut the door.

* * *

"Sorry for such a very rude interruption," Julien said politely to Klara as a nearly audible hush went around the room at his appearance. Trinidad very nearly rolled her eyes, but even she straightened her skirts and looked over to the prince as locks of hair were tossed back over shoulders and hems corrected. He was the type of handsome that shouldn't exist in real life - polished and perfect and like something from a story-book that it seemed so desperately unfair that he should be a physical being. And he seemed comfortable in that attractiveness in a way so few of the Selected girls did.

And how well-trained he was - every movement he made, like the evening before in the dining room, seemed calculated to make the maximum impact on the girls in front of him. Even as he brushed a stray lock of hair from his face and smiled a little self-deprecatingly, Trinidad could have sworn that she heard someone in the back of the crowd make a swooning sound. If it had been Clementine, she would have sworn it was mockingly, but Rosalyn Akerman did not thus far seem like the type of person to mock the prince. Adalyn Larson followed the prince's movements with a look in her eye that Trinidad felt vaguely irritated the other girl had allowed to become visible. Was everyone else in this room leaving her heart on her sleeve?

"I was just hoping I could introduce myself to our lovely guests," Julien said with a smile. "Get to know you all."

Even his speech patterns, Trinidad noticed, and she saw that a few of the other, more observant girls had noticed too, seemed that bit too relaxed - as though he had rehearsed it in front of a mirror before coming in to see them.

Klara dropped into a perfect curtsy, her head and back straight, her eyes never leaving the Crown Prince. She stood straight, and gestured towards the couches set up in the corner. "Of course, your Majesty. If you'd like to -"

"Perfect," Julien said, and turned to the crowd of girls. "Ladies East, Sabine and Elena, if you wouldn't mind accompanying me on a hunt this morning? I will meet the three of you in the garden in a half hour, if that would give you all enough time to change." His tone brokered no argument, and indeed, he turned to Klara without even waiting for an answer from the Selected in question. "In the meanwhile, I believe my mother would like to meet you all one by one and get to know you now that so few of you remain. I'm sure you're all eager to eat, so I don't expect it to take up too much of your time. Do forgive me if she's slow with your names; there are quite a few of you, even with so many of you gone. Thank you, Klara. That will be all." He turned and walked away, the doors closed and the soldiers resumed their positions. Silence engulfed the room for another several moments.

Then heads swiveled and the glares began.

Sabine Biblioson sank low in her chair. Elena Underwood fixed her gaze on an invisible spot in the air and her gaze did not waver.

Any girl who wasn't Trinidad would have felt sorry for them.

* * *

Julien had not chosen these girls had random.

He was very glad for a spy in their midst, especially one as subtle and unassuming as a maid, which blended into the walls more often than not. He remembered his mother telling Madrigal the story of how she had served as Maxon's counsel during the Selection and how that had been how they had fell in love that way, and a part of Julien wondered if that wasn't why he had chosen such an inattainable girl such as Islana for his own informant.

He didn't want to risk love.

Rather than go and change, he went up to the third-floor, where the lrivate quarters of the royal family were to be found, and found Demetrius' door.

There was some hushed talking and low laughter behind the walls, and rather than risk overhearing something he would regret, Julien knocked abruptly on the door and was rewarded with sudden silence on the other side. There was a quiet curse from Demetrius and laughter from someone else, and then his brother opened the door just enough that only his head was visible.

"Please tell me the palace is on fire," Demetrius said, his voice a little huskier than usual. "Or the rebels are attacking, or Xandra is ill or something, because those are the only reasons I would accept for your interrupting me right now."

"Ah," Julien said sarcastically. "Is she someone special?" A thought occured to him. "You haven't got your hooks into one of the Selected, have you?"

"Not yet," Demetrius said. "And if that's why you're here -"

"You're coming hunting with me and some of the ladies."

That shut him up. "Why?"

"You're a member of the royal family, aren't you?"

"So they tell me." There was bitterness in his voice. "What if I just say no?"

"I am going to be your king someday," Julien said. "And, unfortunately, you're my brother. So that isn't an option. Get dressed, get rid of the girl, and get down to the yard in ten minutes. Can you manage all of that without taking a drink or a hit?"

His voice was dry. "I'll try."

* * *

Her name was Katherin Matthews, and it did not escape her notice that Queen America was every inch as perfect up close as she seemed on the Report.

Oh, there were flaws there now that had escaped unnoticed when she was just a figure on a screen - a flyaway hair, shadows under her eyes no make-up could entirely hide and a slightly remote look in her eyes, but that did not at all impact the effect she had on the room as her detached gaze swept the room. Katherin remembered what it was that her maid, Nani, had told her was the tradition for the queen - to remain at a distance unil the girls had been whittled down to the Elite, to allow her son to make his own decision without her interference or personal attachment o any individual.

Her gaze swept over them, and Katherin was surprised indeed to see a spark of energy in her eyes that seemed at odds with the serene royal image the queen typically projected.

"Good morning, ladies," she said, practically sang, and she moved further into the room, her trademark blue skirts rustling as she glided over the hardwood. "I hope you all had a wonderful rest and are ready to face the Selection with the poise and confidence I know you all possess. I look forward to getting to know you all over the following few weeks, but until then, I hope you won't mind too much if I have you all introduce yourself to me individually." She smiled. "Don't worry - breakfast won't be long behind." She spoke briefly to Klara, and then retreated back to the couches as Klara gestured an apprehensive looking Clementine Georges over to speak with the queen.

The queen looked happy to talk to a fellow Five-born girl, and although, to Katherin's amusement, the usually outspoken girl seemed a little more reticent and polite when she came face-to-face with the queen herself, the two soon slipped into what seemed like a comfortable kind of conversation.

Katherin adjusted her hem for what had to be the hundreth time and skewed her gaze over to her companion, Eilinora Winslow. "What do you suppose we'll have to talk about?"

Eilinora shrugged. "I guess she just wants to know a little bit about us. It must be odd to have so many strangers in your home at once and have no clue which is which."

After Clementine rose again and rejoined the group at the tables, Rosalyn Akerman was called over. Everyone seemed to be itching to demand of Clementine what had happened and what she had been asked, but the cameras were still roaming, so they restrained themselves with difficulty and Katherin adjusted her hair.

To Eden's clear horror, Rosalyn seemed to have charmed the queen with the subtleness and sweet charisma which was her greatest strength - the queen laughed at something Rosalyn had said, and smiled throughout, and it felt like hours before she nodded and Rosalyn returned to the table.

Klara caught Katherin's eye, then, and gestured her to take her place.

Katherin hadn't been expecting to be called so soon, but the queen had directed her gaze towards the girl by then, so she had no choice but to rise and walk over, trying to imitate the drifting glide with which Evangeline and Kalyana moved.

"Good morning, your Highness," Katherin said, and the queen motioned that she should sit.

"Good morning, Katherin. May I ask how you are settling in?"

"Very well, thank you."

"You look lovely."

Katherin smiled. She had chosen the powder-blue summer dress herself, and found the subtle floral pattern to be quite visually striking - it caught one's gaze as their eye caught the pattern but their brain did not, so that it took a moment to appreciate it.

"You have some very talented household staff," was all Katherin could think of to say that wasn't very proud or snobbish. She had no idea what the queen was looking for, or how much if this would be relayed to the prince - or how much would end up on the television.

"You wear it well," the queen remarked, and Katherin willed herself not to blush. "You were a Three even prior to the Selection, were you not? How are you adjusting to the palace thus far?"

Katherin was a little surprised by this abrupt change of subject, and by the queen's concern for the subject of the very castes she and her husband had sworn to abolish. But maybe that was it exactly - she wanted to understand what kind of a difference it meant to the girls, at a time like the Selection when even those things that were meant to mean least, like the castes, meant everything.

"Truthfully, your highness?"

"Of course."

"I find that we haven't been here long enough to have adjusted at all," Katherin said, and hoped it didn't sound like a rebuke for the woman having asked the question. "It's very quiet, especially compared to my hone province, and although I am not homesick, it is strange to get used to. And I find that all of us Selected girls are all very segregated from personal interaction, you know, with seperate flights and rooms and everything - we have had little time to get to know one another, so I have found that it is rather lonesome thus far."

The queen nodded thoughtfully.

"Would you prefer that changed?"

"I'm not much of a people person anyway, your highness. I think I rather prefer the loneliness."

The queen laughed a little at that, and Katherin silently congratulated herself forw getting any kind of a reaction from the woman who seemed like a synonym for 'ice queen'.

"Let's hope we can bring you out of your shell a little during the Selection," the queen said, and Katherin sensed that her scarce few seconds were up. "Thank you very much for your time, Lady Katherin - and enjoy your breakfast."

Katherin nodded, smiled and turned away - and then turned around instantly, completing a three sixty degree turn as she made a weak imitation at Klara's curtsy.

"Thank you, your highness," and returned to her seat as Lani Watson was called.

* * *

Her name was Sabine Biblioson, and she hadn't really known what to expect when she left the palace and emerged out into the warm sunlight that had swallowed the palace whole. Despite the oncoming winter, autumn had its hooks in the world and didn't seem inclined to let it go anytime soon - the sky was a clear crystal azure, unburdened by clouds, and she felt that the jacket with which she had been furnished by her maids was very unnecessary. If there was one thing Sabine disliked, it was days as sunny and warm as this - coming from rain-bound Lakedon as she did, the hot weather of Angeles was foreign to her.

A small part of her was irritated that she had been forced to change out of her dress so early in the day, but a much larger part of her adored the smooth, tight cream jodphurs Freida and Tillie had prepared for her and the well-tailored cut of her navy riding coat. She felt elegant and sophisticated and beautiful, and felt certain that she would catch Julien's eye.

Provided, of course, that he hadn't just asked them out for the ride to make the bad news easier to break.

The long gravel drive up which the cars had swept the previous day now played host to Elena Underwood, looking just as beautiful, if not moreso, than Sabine herself - her long hair was swept up into a sophisticated updo and her boots shone like oil in the light.

"Good morning," Sabine said sweetly, nd although she had expected Elena to merely incline her head, the girl responded with genuine friendliness.

"Oh, thank god! I was worried I was in the wrong place, or that you all had left without me!" she said with a laugh as Sabine came down the steps. "Do you know how to ride, Sabine?"

"A little. You?"

"Barely at all. I'm going to make a fool of myself, I know it!"

Sabine laughed. "Any prince worth his salt would allow no such thing. And anyway, all of the romantic films start with someone making a fool of themselves!"

"I'd much rather have the happy ending of a romantic movie without all the work and effort that goes into all of those misunderstandings and comical mishaps."

Nonetheless, the girls moved together to round the corner of the palace and followed a narrow slate path across one of the lawns, where a large yard stretched into being at the edge of the woods.

Julien was waiting there for them, looking as smart as ever in a royal-blue jacket and dark boots, a crop beneath his arm. He was, Sabine was surprised to see, speaking to a dark-haired, slightly shorter guy that looked like he was too young to be an official and far too carefree to be any kind of guard. Coming closer, she was surprised to see that next to this guy, Julien looked like a troll from the depths of some swamp - the other eyes that were dark and promised trouble, and his cheekbones were perfect, his hair as wild as if he had rolled out bed and his clothes dishevelled enough that it made Sabine think he was trying that bit too hard to make everyone believe he didn't care.

Julien turned at the sound of the girls' boots on cobblestones, and smiled. "Lady Sabine, Lady Elena. Thank you for joining us."

Even after Sabine and Elena had stopped in front of the prince and his companion, the footsteps continued and Sabine glanced over her shoulder to see that the Eight had trailed behind them at a distance. She was dressed similarly, but wore only a shirt above her breeches, the top buttons undone just enough that the top of her white camisole and a long scar marking her collarbone were visible.

"Your Highness," Elena said, and executed a bow that left Sabine wondering if there had been some etiquette seminar to which she had not been invited. "May you introduce me to your acquaintance?"

Julien gestured to the dark-haired guy, who was watching the girls without pretense - his eyes swept down Sabine's slender frame, traced Elena's curves, and to Sabine's amusement, skipped quickly over East entirely. "This," Julien said. "Is Lord Demetrius. He's -" And Sabine wasn't sure if everyone picked up on the miniscule pause, but she did. "He is the master of the royal hunt."

"So formal," Demetrius murmured, and if it hadn't been for his blatant disrespect towards both ladies and their bodies, Sabine might have liked him. She wondered why the leader of the hunt would feel so comfortable around the prince, Lord or no.

"My apologies," Julien said to both ladies and the Eight. "He wasn't my first choice."

The grooms were bringing out the horses for the five-strong group now, and Sabine was a little peturbed to see that the horse someone had chosen out for her was a giant creature - maybe sixteen hands high and bound with muscle covered with a dappled grey coat. The shorter Elena had been given a suitably shorter horse, and the lean Eight had been given a horse with a build like a steeplechaser.

She considered the gargantuan task in front of her - that of actually mountimg the horse - but before she had a chance to over-think it, Julien had stepped forward and slipped an arm around her waist to helo her up. She could feel his hand pressed against her ribcage for a long moment that seemed far stiller than it actually was, and then she was settled and busied herself fitting her boots into the stirrups as Demetrius swung himself into his saddle.

Julien was making himself useful tightening Elena's horse's girth while she gazed at him with something that wasn't affectionate enough to be admiration. Demetrius rolled his eyes and swung his horse around easily, flicking a gaze back to Sabine and the Eight she now realised was at her side.

"Lead the way," Julien said calmly, and if it had been anyone but the charming prince of Illéa, Sabine might have mistaken the note in his voice for warning. The huntsman smirked, a motion which made Sabine's heartrate spike abruptly for a reason she couldn't quite identify. Luckily, the baying of hounds at a short distance drowned out the heartbeat she was absolutely certain was audible, and Demetrius seemed distracted by that a little, sweeping his gaze to the forest that bordered the immaculate lawns of the palace.

"Keep up," he said, and the Eight seemed to take that as a challenge, because she took up her reins in both hands and leaned forward a little in her saddle. Sabine was suddenly glad for the half-a-dozen riding lessons she had attended as a child and never returned to - as long as she stayed slow, walking and trotting, she hoped she wouldn't fall off too often. As Demetrius spun his horse and set off at a pace that didn't seem entirely sensible, Julien caught up with Sabine to offer her a smile.

"Your majesty," Sabine said, and tried to mimic Elena's respectful, deferential tone.

"Call me Julien, please."

Sabine resolved to refer to him as 'you' for the rest of the conversation to avoid having to consider whether he was being polite or sincere. Clementine Georges had remarked early in the day that she doubted that this boy could be both at the same time.

The thundering of hooves ahead and the howling of dogs seemed to excite Sabine's horse, and despite her limited experience, she found herself holding the animal back only barely. Julien moved a little closer to her, so that their stirrups clinked gently, and smiled. "We probably shouldn't let those two get too far ahead."

"I might fall off," she couldn't help but say. Something about his gaze made her want to tell him everything he wanted to know, despite her usually reticent nature, and he smiled a little at her outspokeness.

"As though I would let that happen. Don't you have faith in me, lady?"

Sabine smiled a little. "Of course."

Julien's smile spread slightly, an approximation of something true.

"Then come on."

He spurred his horse on, and the prospect of losing its companion meant that Sabine's mount sped also, and soon the two were cantering along the worn path in the forest side-by-side, Julien settling to the rocking gait of the horse with ease, Sabine with a little more difficulty. However, after a few minutes of comfortable silence and riding, she found herself to be quite at ease and her mind soon threatened to slip away to daydreaming - she hastily turned to Julien.

"Thank you for this invitation, your maj - Julien."

"It is my pleasure," Julien replied, and Sabine fought valiently to ignore the glare Elena shot her at that. Julien had said little, but it was nonetheless a small victory

Then again, what did small victories mean when you were trying to make someone fall in love with you... and vice versa?

The horses rocked back and forth and then gathered themselves and crossed a bank with the easy stride of a well-trained herd. The forest dissipated for a few moments and bled into a much larger grassland, a large meadow at the edge of which the forest bordered. The winding forest path straightened into a long stretch of worn-away grass, at the far distance of which Sabine could see Demetrius still going fast; keeping up with the dogs, she guessed, and she chided herself for forgetting that they were meant to be hunting.

Elena slipped up next to Julien as soon as the road width allowed it, and he responded to her as maganimously as he had to Sabine, who felt herself slip away into the clouds as she lost herself in her thoughts.

She hadn't realised how fast they were moving - within ten minutes they had caught up with Demetrius, who had stopped his horse to throw both girls a sly look, and Sabine reminded herself to never be left alone with the man - not for fear of him, for she was certain no dangerous man would be permitted to stay in the palace for long, but for fear of herself and how easily someone as handsome and fiery as Demetrius might convince her to do something she would regret.

"They've caught something," he said, and Elena made a squeal of disgust that Sabine wasn't entirely certain hadn't been faked, and leaned in closer to Julien.

"I don't suppose it's anything we can eat?" the Eight said, and then after a moment, raised her hands from the reins in defense, sitting easy in the saddle. "I was joking. We skipped breakfast."

"Thought you of all people would be used to that," Elena sniped from behind Julien's shoulder. If the prince hadn't been there, Sabine was certain the insults would have gone further. Demetrius smiled a little.

The Eight just shrugged as Demetrius dropped down from his horse to climb up the short cropping of rocks upon which the dogs had climbed to pin the poor fox - Sabine had assumed they would be trail-hunting without actually requiring a live creature to be involved.

But Demetrius retured after only a few moments. "Gone to ground," he said shortly, with the lead foxhound at his heel. "Want to bring them back to a covert, or...?"

His words were cut off by a distance rumbling in the air, and Sabine barely had time to tilt her head backwards before the heavens opened from the charcoal clouds she had not even noticed eclipsing the burning sun. The sky was streaked with grey now, like an ageing man's hair, and the rain came fast so that Sabine was drenched within the few seconds it took Demetrius to swing back into the saddle and swing the horse around towards home. It was only when she saw the relaxed huntsman next to the prince that Sabine realised how cautiously Julien held himself, even when he seemed to have relaxed.

Demetrius said nothing in particular, but with a whistle to the dogs and a wink at Sabine that made her acutely aware of how skin-tight her jodphurs were, he was gone like a flash of lightning and the others followed in order - the Eight, then Elena, and behind them both, Julien and Sabine coming side-by-side.

Julien smiled at her as they ducked briefly under the shelter of the forest, and her heart skipped a beat at the way the simple expression disarmed her.

She smiled back, and then had to laugh at the rain as it streamed past, and the forest sped past.

* * *

Sabine was gone by the next day.

* * *

Coming upstairs after her disastrous meeting with the queen, Rosalyn cursed herself with every step for the mistakes she had made.

She was so busy blaming herself for this and that in her own mind that she nearly ran straight into East Smith heading towards her own bedroom as a storm gathered slowly outside.

The Eight girl had obviously been surprised by the weather - her long hair was bedraggled and damp, and she wore an oversized jacke haphazardly over her wet clothes. A distinctively masculine jacket, Rosalyn couldn't help but notice, and a shot of uncertainty went through her. Were Smith and the prince really so close already?

That knowledge only compounded her own disappointment in herself for her mistakes.

"Excuse me," she said quietly, and, moving past Smith, she went into her room and shut the door firmly so that she could get ready for whatever faced her that afternoon.

* * *

_**Remaining Selected - 18:**_

Charlotte Cohen

Evangeline Jones-Fitzwilliams

Eden Lamarie

Katherin Matthews

Eilinora Winslow

Jesse Wren

Kalyana Khan

Clementine Georges

Lani Watson

East Smith

Adalyn Larson

Clio Nightingale

Anabel Moritz

Trinidad Mavuto

Kelley Winston

Danielle Monroe

Maya Hartwick

Rosalyn Akerman


	10. Chapter 10

**Thank you all for all your wonderful reviews - keep them coming, they're what keep me inspired! So please, do continue to tell me your interpretations of the characters, who you want to win, what you think will happen, your theories, preferred POVs, guesses as to who Demetrius' mystery girl is or should be, and what you think so far! Critique, especially the constructive kind, is greatly appreciated!**

**I was surprised by some of the guesses as to Demetrius' mystery girl, but not unpleasantly - I think the creator of the girl in question should recognise her soon! Thanks for all the awesome reviews, keep them coming!**

**Also - most Selection SYOCs seem to bring some degree of interaction into the story, so I've decided to try that out. Anyone who is interested in voting, send me the name of the girl you would like to be eliminated next, and the girl you would like to save, in a PM marked "BALLOT".**

* * *

Islana's grandmother had always told her that you could tell a person's character by watching how they treated the staff.

If so, she felt rather vindicated in her general dislike of all things Selected.  
Breakfast had never, for as long as she could remember, been a chaotic affair as it was today. When only four of the royal family were eating in the same room, the noise levels were subdued, and tempers rarely came to the surface.

This breakfast was a real eye-opener.

Rosalyn Akerman had refused breakast entirely and gone up to her rooms to rest, and it was only East Smith who returned from the hunt with the prince.

Obviously, that didn't help things. Thy were down to eighteen, the Selection cut entirely in half, and everyone was rapidly realising that they were actually in with a chance here.

This was truly a competition now, and with the eliminations coming faster than anyone could imagine, every girl was ready to suspect a competitor was better, or someone was ready to sabotage her.

Every girl except four. Lady Clementine seemed unfazeable as she cut her toast into even strips, seemingly more out of distraction than anything else, and spoke to Maya Hartwick on the opposite side of the table. Charlotte Cohen seemed only as tense as she usually did as she toyed absently with the new necklace around her neck, long enough to barely brush the top of her flying jacket. East Smith - because Islana could hardly imagine the word lady referring to this girl - was more concerned with flicking her gaze around the room and watching her neighbors than in gossip. And Jesse Wren looked half-asleep already, absolutely stoic and unfamiliar in a dress rather than the jeans and leather jacket with which she had arrived.

Islana swept the plate away from Eilinora Winslow as she finished and replaced it with another, laden with food, in the blink of an eye - the girl barely looked up, and did not thank the maid.

Well, then.

* * *

"You should get rid of the Eight."

That was all Demetrius had said following the hunt in the woods, and Julien knew that he was right.

But he wasn't going to let his brother make his decisions for him.

Not when he had just eliminated another two girls - Elena because he could not have loved her, and Sabine because he could have, so very easily, loved her.

And he wasn't willing to risk it.

He didn't think he could ever have a relationship with the Eight girl that went beyond friendship, and she would never make a queen, but it was Demetrius' preference for her elimination that made him shake his head.

"Why?"

"She's a rat. Like the King said, a snake. An Eight, for god's sake. You knlw what they are? Whores and criminals and junkies. Now, I'm partial to whores myself, but they're not really the girls you bring home to the family, you understand?"

"I'll be the king of Eights as well." Julien smiled. "Whores as well."

"Doesn't mean you have to marry her."

"I like her," he said, and that was the end of it, and he didn't think Demetrius knew he was lying, because the other guy looked a little surprised and taken aback at this.

A One with an Eight.

What had America been thinking?

* * *

The girls were allowed a little time to themselves after breakfast - time to retire to the Women's Room or to take a walk in the gardens. Sabine made only one brief appearance, in tears, to hug the majority of the girls and tell them good luck and good-bye.

Charlotte had never been good with tears, not even her own.

Rather than allow herself to be caged into the confines of the Women's Room, she enlisted the company of Clementine and Lani Watson to come around the garden with her and try mapping the place out in her mind.  
If eliminations continued coming as fast as they were at the moment, then Charlotte wanted to make sure she kept every image of this wondrous place in her mind for whenever she was drafted again to war.

And then, because Jesse was with them, and because she had never seen a person as lonesome, and because she felt partly responsible for the girl, she gestured for East Smith to accompany them and after long consideration by the girl's dark eyes, she shrugged and rose.

They wore day dresses today, because the rain had cleared almost as soon as it had arrived, and Charlotte was glad to see that the opposition to her flying jacket had clearly been silenced among the maids, because there was no dissent today when she had slung it over her pale pink sun-dress. Jesse hadn't worn her leather jacket, and didn't seem inclined to - she had thrown an incredulous look at Charlotte's jacket and protested, "But it's so ridiculously warm?"

Clementine looked as unpredictable as ever, her chosen gown shorter than Charlotte thought entirely advisable, and coloured in shades of blues and purples, fading from one to another in the light. She was shorter than Charlotte had expected in her ballet flats, but still a good few inches taller than Charlotte herself.

Lani's halter-neck dress left her pale shoulders bare to the Angeles' sunshine. Her white dress was a little longer, brushing her knees, and every so often she would brush one of the bouquets of pastel flowers that covered the dress, as though she were trying to straighten the dress subtly.

East Smith's clothes were the simplest of the lot, and Charlotte could see Lani wondering why the girl was even in the Selection if she didn't seem inclined to make an effort. It was black and white, a black box-pleated skirt with a white lace top, and the tiny girl had managed to lift herself to nearly Clementine's height with a pair of high, grey ankle boots that made the entire outfit a bit rebellious.

Charlotte wondered what kind of an image the Eight was going for.

Charlotte crossed the bridge with the four girls in tow, the bridge that spanned a tiny brook and followed the path along the edge of the rose garden, unable to see past the high walls of shrubbery and looking for a gate or something.

It was strange, with Jesse and East and Charlotte back together so soon, and Charlotte had a not unpleasant feeling that this was to be their dynamic from now on, because East didn't seem inclined to make friends at all.

"Looking for something?"

The voice was sudden, but Lani and Clementine were the only ones who jumped - Charlotte's reflexes were too trained for anything else, and Jesse looked more interested in hitting anything that surprised her.

It was the dark-haired guy that Charlotte had glimpsed briefly in the corridors, and exchanged only a few words with, and overheard her maids mentioning once - but Lord Demetrius was a difficult kind of a guy to forget. Clementine seemed to recognise him at the same time as Charlotte, and they spoke at the same time.

"Your lordship," Charlotte said, at the same time that Clementine said, "Lord Demetrius." Lani just watched the man with cautious eyes.

Jesse just looked a little confused.

"Lady Jesse," Demetrius said, and the word lady sounded like an insult on his lips. "Clementine. Lady Lani. Smith. Soldier Cohen."

Charlotte wondered why he had bothered to learn their names when he was so busy pretending he didn't care.

Demetrius smiled. "I hope you're not lost. You might find it hard to find your way back." His eyes skipped across them all in turn - except for East, of course, because that was rapidly becoming the tradition, and she wasn't too pretty anyway.

Charlotte felt a little insulted on the smaller girl's behalf.

"We're looking for the rose garden," Charlotte said, setting her jaw in a determined way that had sent enemies running in the past. "Or at least, a way in."

"I could show you," Demetrius said, looking amused again, and Charlotte hesitated for a moment before she shrugged and nodded.

"I am a soldier," she said, a little sweetly, and Demetrius very nearly smiled. "Just remember that before you try anything."

She glanced at the other girls, but Lani didn't seem entirely trustful of Demetrius' good intentions, and East Smith didn't seem to like him at all. Jesse met Charlotte's eyes, and Charlotte nodded.

She turned back to Demetrius. "Lead the way, then."

* * *

Her name was Kelley Winston, and once she had found a friend, she stuck by them, which was why she felt the need to position herself next to Kalyana Khan in the Women's Room as a kind of guard of honour to ward her from the jealous looks thrown at her by people like Rosalyn Akerman and Eden Lamarie - one of whom was in love with the prince, the other with the throne, she assumed.

Eden Lamarie was the most beautiful of the girls,that was without doubt, and only Eilinora came close to being half as pretty as she, but it was clear that she felt threatened by Kalyana's poise and serenity - nothing seemed to ever affect her the way other things did, and even Eden's purposefully loud gossiping seemed to go unnoticed by the New Asian girl, who kwpt her head down, her eyes on her book, her mouth shut.

Shame Kelley couldn't do the same. If Eden was looking for some kind lf verbal sparring, she had found her opponent in Kelley.

It had not been, Danielle Monroe assured Kelley afterwards, an even battle. Poor Eden Lamarie was not used to being challenged.

* * *

Clementine clearly had little interest for the garden itself, and seemed far more inclined to just sit and enjoy the fresh air, while Jesse went back down to the brook and the Eight followed the path to the forest.

Rather than risk the wrath of the royal family by pulling some of her majesty's flowers, she plucked some wild daisies from the grass and, directing Lani to sit next to her on the sloping lawn, began to plait the flowers into the other girl's thick brown hair. "This should be your image," she said with a smile. "Flower-braided girl with a heart of gold."

"Don't you want that image for your own?"

"Nonsense. I'm paint-covered idiot who can't keep her mouth shut. We play our parts, Watson, remember?"

"There's only one part you care about."

"You're not still scandalised about that, are you?"

"No. I understand it a little. But I still think you're going to go to hell for it."

Clementine laughed out loud and then Lani had to join in and she smiled a little and let Clementine continue with the daisy chains.

* * *

The war was going badly, but what kind of a war went well?

* * *

"How was your hunt?" Jesse had to ask as the silence became that bit too heavy to bear on her own. East skewed her eyes over to the other girl, as though trying to detect some kind of ulterior motive inherent in the question.

Jesse wasn't really that kind of girl.

"I fell off twice," East said, and for the first time that Jesse could remember, her lips twitched with a ghost of a smile at the soldier's amused reaction.

"Did you catch anything?"

"A cold, I think. The weather here is really changeable. Not like in -"

She went silent again.

"I know what you mean. In Sumner, you know what kind of weather you're going to get. It'll be the same as it was yesterday, or the day before, or the day before that. No surprises."

"This is a surprising place," East said, and Jesse had to agree.

* * *

King Maxon was barely out of his offices that day, so busy was he with co-ordinating a force to move into Hindustan to defend a military base that was under threat from government forces. Just because the two countries were negotiating didn't mean that everyone in the country would stop fighting while the leaders squabbled over ports and exports and reparations of varying import.

The air-force had lost more pilots than any other division when the fiasco in Outer Persia had resulted in the deaths of three entire squadrons - leaving only one survivor, who seemed extremely disinclined to return to the front when she was now being called 'lady' and in with a chance of winning a crown rather than a medal for killing other people.

After a while, Julien couldn't be certain who was winning, or if a war like this could be won. The death tolls were huge on both sides, and for every factory or cache Illéan forces destroyed, the New Asian soldiers would ensure the capture of a port or military base. They were trading point for point, and the death numbers continued to stack, and it was because the New Asian leaders knew that the Illéans were as desperate as they were that they allowed the war to continue.

Not that the rebel situation was much better. They were fighting two wars, one from without and one from within, and King Maxon was rapidly coming to believe that there was a mole in the ranks at the Palace.

Julien kept his head down for the entire meeting.

* * *

The rose garden was a labyrinth of thorns, and if Charlotte had been more poetically inclined, she would have said that it served as some kind of a metaphor for Demetrius himself, because he didn't seem inclined to talk as he led the way to the centre.  
She couldn't help but wonder at him - wonder at who he was and why he was, and what kind of a lord was more inclined to use military names than courtly ones. And she wondered why he was permitted to stay around, when it was a rare girl indeed who would fall in love with Julien when he was around.

The maze turned in on itself and twisted and curled and curved, but somehow, Charlotte couldn't make herself mind so much once Demetrius took her by the wrist to guide her through a particularly tight corner.  
She was a soldier, god damnit - and she was a damn good one. She was stronger than this.

And he seemed to like that, seemed to like her confidence and strength, because his smile only grew once she pulled back her hand.

"You've heard of me," she said, because otherwise the silence threatened to strangle her like a noose.

"Who hasn't?" he replied. "The bravest girl in Illéa, isn't that what they called you?"

She said nothing.

The centre of the maze opened up into a circular space large enough for a bench in the middle, with the flowers pruned away from the ceiling of the structure so that Charlotte could see the sun when she tipped her head back to consider her old friend, the open sky.

She turned, and she saw that Demetrius was a bit closer to her than she had expected.

She didn't mind so much.

Not even when he leaned into her, and he kissed her, and she closed her eyes a little and wondered some more.

She didn't mind then.

But she found herself minding very much when she pushed him back, unwilling to be that kind of girl who fell for his flrtations and his games and let him do as he pleased, and he, with what she guessed to be that same sly, amused look on his face, had disappeared by the time she had opened her eyes again.

And now she had to find her own way out of the maze he had led her into.

Falling love with Julien, Charlotte sensed, would be a lot less frustrating.

Maybe that's why they kept Demetrius around.


	11. Chapter 11

**Thank you all for all your wonderful reviews - keep them coming, they're what keep me inspired! So please, do continue to tell me your interpretations of the characters, who you want to win, what you think will happen, your theories, preferred POVs, guesses as to who Demetrius' mystery girl is or should be, and what you think so far! Critique, especially the constructive kind, is greatly appreciated!**

**Sorry to hear that some people feel I have been focusing unfairly on some characters over others. It was not intentional, only a result of trying to ensure that the plot remains to develop as well as the characters. Some characters match the plot better, and some characters are easier to write as they are more dynamic - subplots are easier to create. In this chapter I have tried to give everyone equal focus - at the very least, everyone shows up! If any of you think of a subplot which would suit a character, don't hesitate to PM!**

**Also - most Selection SYOCs seem to bring some degree of interaction into the story, so I've decided to try that out. Anyone who is interested in voting, send me the name of the girl you would like to be eliminated next, and the girl you would like to save, in a PM marked "BALLOT".**

**EDIT: Thank you very much to majestictales for pointing out some continuity errors - Charlotte was removed from a scene near the end but references to her remained. I have since edited this accordingly.**

* * *

Islana had seen men die before.

* * *

Rosalyn had thought that everyone had gone all-out for the breakfast that morning she was not prepared for the effort the other Selected girls put into their evening attire for their first dinner shared with the royal family. Day-dresses were swapped for gowns that swept the floor as they walked, a soft whisper as they moved. Court shoes were replaced with sky-scraper heels, and hair was drawn up elegantly or carefully arranged over the shoulder – Eden Lamarie was keeping her head oddly stiff as the group made their way down the stairs, and after a moment, Rosalyn realized that it was to prevent disturbing her hair, which had been carefully curled and sorted in ringlets.

The group was even quieter today, if that was even possible – the elimination of nearly half the other girls so early in the Selection had everyone on high alert, worrying what kind of reason they might give the prince to dismiss them. They were all quiet, but there was fewer of them – even their footsteps on the floor made less noise, and those had not been loud to begin with.

Rosalyn swept a look around – even after only a day and a half, she thought that she could see some friendships and alliances forming, although she was very glad to see that most girls seemed to be honestly friendly with one another rather than merely playing some sort of game, and she was grateful that her own friend, Eilinora, was genuine in all the ways that mattered.

She, Katherin and Eilinora were not as close as Rosalyn had been with her friends at home, but she was glad she had some company for the few weeks or even months she would be spending at the palace. Katherin was quiet and Eilinora sweet, so they got along as well as three girls could.

They walked down together and took their places at the left-hand side of the giant U that formed the dining room at the palace. The royal family were not yet present, and there was no Klara to cast a sinister evil eye upon them all, so most of the girls felt comfortable enough to talk amongst themselves without fear of remonstration.

The two soldier girls, Charlotte and Jesse Wren, were similarly birds of a feather, and they flocked together as was to be expected, although they were usually trailed at some kind of a subtle distance by their newly-acquired shadow, the rat-faced, thief-eyed East, who was referred to invariably by nearly everyone as 'the Eight'. Charlotte sat a little further down from Rosalyn, and she was concerned to see that the usual straight-forward, warm girl seemed silent and uncomfortably deep in thought, not replying to the questions of any of her neighbours – Lani looked almost as concerned as Rosalyn felt, but Jesse distracted her quickly with a well-timed question.

"Well," Eilinora said with a smile. "Obviously the prince doesn't have much experience with dating."

Rosalyn laughed, but felt a little bad for doing so. The elimination of Sabine had been what had surprised Rosalyn most – the girl had seemed so very normal and warm, like the kind of girl who could have existed in real-life, outside of the Selection. A lot of the girls here were difficult to imagine existing in their own provinces, away from the palace – people like Eden Lamarie and Danielle Monroe had surely just come into existence purely to participate in the Selection.

Speaking of Eden, she had apparently recovered from her verbal spat with Kelley earlier in the day and she was chatting between her two new allies.

Eden Lamarie had an eye for competition, and an even sharper eye for rivals – keep your friends close, your enemies closer, and so she kept Clio Nightingale and Trinidad Mavuto as close to her as she could. Maya Hartwick, Adalyn Larson and Anabel Moritz tended to talk with one another in the Women's Room and the dining room, while Kelley Winston and Danielle Monroe had spent the entirety of the breakfast time that morning chatting quietly – Rosalyn wasn't sure if that truly counted as friendship, but maybe a concrete friendship wasn't needed for the short time of the Selection.

"Maybe something happened," Katherin said with a serious look. "You never know. I just find it strange that the Eight is the only one not to have been knocked out."

"Have any of you even spoken to East?" Rosalyn asked mildly. It irritated her slightly that everyone here insisted on referring to the girl solely by the caste which did not even mean anything now that they were in the Selection and they were all Threes or Twos and castes were not meant to matter.

"I think she has something up her sleeve," Katherin said, and Eilinora nodded, still smiling.

"She's hustling us."

Rosalyn nodded. None of the three were favorites to win - they hadn't even been asked out on a date with the prince yet. It felt like they were somehow losing the Selection without even knowing it.

Evangeline Jones-Fitzwilliams and Kalyana Khan were the two of the quiestest girls in the Selection, so it seemed only natural that the two might gravitate towards one another so that they could be quiet and elegant together. They were the only two not talking, so they noticed first so that the doors had swung open and the guards had moved away to allow the entrance of the royal family.

* * *

The rebels poured through like quicksand.

* * *

Jesse could not think of any sane reason that the master of the hunt would be sitting with the royal family at dinner.

And she wasn't the only one confused – especially by the way he held himself, the way he seemed so very, very comfortable sitting there, the way he seemed to belong.

Queen America looked as lovely and delicate as always, with her hair like fire and her skin like porcelain, her long blue dress bringing out the flecks of blue and grey in her eyes. A delicate silver tiara settled in her hair caught the light as she moved her head to say something to her husband, who looked older than he did on the Selection than in real life. His hair was flecked with grey, and his shoulders, made broader by the stiff cut of his suit, seemed somewhat rounded, as though he were perpetually leaning forward into the wind.

Princesses Madrigal and Xandra both looked positively angelic, although Madrigal looked a little uncomfortably so. Xandra sat up next to the guy Charlotte had called Demetrius, and looked like a tiny, delicate toy next to him.

Remembering what had happened in the garden, Jesse glanced again at Charlotte – there was no Jennifer Karrs to reach over now if she wanted to talk to her friend, but she didn't want to make a big deal if something _was _wrong. Charlotte may have been a soldier with a spine of steel and heart of iron, but she was also a teenage girl who didn't want to be embarassed in front of the alpha wolves who were her competition.

She caught Charlotte's eye, and then tapped her fingers three times on the table, then once on the rim of her glass. It was a rough approximation of the usual Illean military shorthand for 'All Clear?', used in a firefight or indeed in the cockpit of a fighter jet when everything was too loud to hear someone speaking. Charlotte obviously caught what she meant, and gave a practically unnoticeable shake of her head.

Jesse hadn't really considered what she would do if Charlotte told her she wasn't okay.

She wasn't the type of person who made things okay.

Things got very not okay when Jesse got involved.

She inclined her head towards the table at which the royal family sat, her eyebrows raised. Charlotte just watched her and gave no indication as to whether or not her friend was correct.

Jesse looked back towards her plate and speared a piece of fish.

The fucker couldn't keep his amused eyes from their side of the table, and Jesse hated him for it - especially because it was so obviously for their benefit. He was capable of subtlety. If he was any kind of a royal, he would have to be.

He wouldn't stop with Charlotte. The guy fed off misery.

It was a relief to Jesse when the dinner was over and the girls were allowed to make their own way back to their rooms.

Adalyn leaned forward and said something that Jesse couldn't hear, because the girl's voice was drowned out in Jesse's ear by the distant, distant sound of boots on the floor.

To anyone else it would have been inaudible – not to Jesse, and if Charlotte had not been distracted by her own thoughts, she would have heard it too.

The entire music of the palace had changed. In the mountains, the world comprised of bird songs and the roaring of a river and the howl of wild wolves in the distance. In battle, the world was gunfire and shouts and orders and blood in the ears. And here in the palace, Jesse was surrounded by the click of the guards' shoes on the floor as they walked and marched, the massive doors opening and closing, the forks touching the plates.

This was different. This was sprinting and yelling and then, far in the distance, an explosion.

And for the first time since the Selection had begun, Jesse felt adrenaline flood her veins.

* * *

Lani and Eden had found themselves in neighbouring rooms that were found on the far side of the royal palace, over-looking the queen's rose gardens and the thick forest beyond - as far away from the main thoroughfare as it was possible to be - so rather than take the main, sweeping gold staircase that the Selected girls used when they travelled as a group under Klara's stern eye, so once they departed the dining room, the pair crossed the main foyer to try and find a smaller back stairs that Eden's maid, Ilam, had told her about to save time getting about the castle.

The two were not exactly friendly - they didn't know each other well enough to be anything but merely respectful to one another - but the palace was so alien that Lani was very glad for the company.

A guard was stationed at the interior door to the foyer, and as the two girls crossed the tiled floor, he turned to face them, his face creased with worries. "Sorry, ladies," he said, and he sounded sorry, and he sounded stressed. He was young and handsome, with unlined skin and slate-grey eyes, and he seemed confident as he walked over to them and guided them away from the doors, down a slightly smaller corridor that Lani recognised as leading back to the smaller foyer where the Selection assembled each morning. "I'm afraid you'll have to use the other staircase, there's been a security -"

He didn't get to finish that thought because there was a shout from outside, loud enough to reach inside, at then a sound like rattling outside and the glass in the windows exploded inwards and the guard jerked and spasmed and Eden screamed, and Lani turned instinctively to protect her face and shield Eden from the glass and from the bullets that were still rattling through the interior doors and the windows, and landing with dull sounds in the walls. The two of them half-fell, half-crouched so that they would be below the level of the windows, and Lani's breath rasped painfully through her throat as she struggled to understand what was going on.

It was only now, that she had turned around, she noticed that the two had a little shadow with them, and saw East, who had the room across from Lani's, crouched with her hands over her ears. She had a point - with each gunshot, the sound got closer, until it was as loud as a crack of thunder.

Then, for a brief moment, there was silent.

Lani and Eden stood.

The guard was dead.

East darted forward, quick as a rat, and knelt for a split second at the dead guard's side before she rose, allowing Lani a glimpse of the gun in her hand, the gun she had taken from the guard's corpse.

"Smith," Eden yelled in panic and confusion. "What the hell are you-"

"Come on," East said, and the three of them ran down the corridor, East behind them as she always was, and Lani knew they would have run faster without these long dresses that snaked and strangled around their legs.

Eden was the first one to pitch forward and fall.

Then the entire wall exploded into nothingness and East Smith began to fire into the dust, her eyes narrowed and her face determined, and Lani remembered that this wasn't a Five from Carolina or a Two from Angeles she was watching. This was East. This was the Eight girl from Zuni and rebel attacks were nothing new to her.

"Go," East yelled and Eden didn't look back as she scrambled to her feet and sprinted in the direction of safety. Lani cast a glance at East, and then followed.

The entire place was in chaos. Lani caught sight of Danielle and Kelley sprinting in one direction, Maya and Adalyn in the other, and she couldn't help but grab at Eden's sleeve so that she wouldn't lose the one familiar face in the crowd. The maids were running everywhere, guards rushing toward the door to defend, and officials ferrying back and forth as though they weren't sure what was going on.

Surely they were used to this?

Lani tripped and Eden kept going, twisting her hand so that she was grabbing Lani's wrist and hauling her up again awkwardly, and they kept running. Lani caught a glimpse of what she had tripped over - a guard, the flesh of his throat parted by a knife, staring blindly at the ceiling.

Eden plunged through the crowd and kept Lani with her, and when Klara showed herself by the doors to the Great Hall, Lani was ready to cry with gratitude. "Come on, girls, hurry!" she called, her voice only a shade louder than it usually was, and she did not seem fazed at all by what was going on. "Come on, come on, come on!"

She sounded like she was telling them they had slept in, or they were late for dinner, or they were still curtseying wrong for the hundreth time.

Lani and Eden stumbled towards Klara, who took them firmly by the shoulders and pointed to a tiny, alcovan corridor Lani was certain she would not have noticed if not for the older woman. "Listen to me. I still have to gather the other Selected. I'll stand here all night if I have to to get you all safe. Follow that path, then go down the stairs. It'll take you to the shelter room. You understand? Go, and go quick."

Lani wanted to tell Klara that East was probably in trouble, and that she was probably hurt, and that she was probably going to die and the idiotic girl wouldn't even try saving herself, but Klara had already turned away and there was a scream from one of the maids as the door to the Great Hall was impacted by bullets and then flew open and masked men shoved their way in. Lani herself screamed as one of the men, the first one into the room, grabbed the closest maid and turned and flung her to the ground and executed her with a single shot to the head.

Eden and Lani ran.

The corridor was dark and grey and twisting, Lani guessed to slow down any rebels who tried to gain access. There was no light, so the two girls had to slow down themselves to feel their way past some of the corridors, and Eden nearly fell straight down the steps once they found them. Lani grabbed Eden by her shoulder and hauled her back at the last minute, and together they cautiously made their way down.

There were no sounds down here. Nothing to suggest that there was a war going on upstairs. Just silence - and then, in the distance, a warm golden light that made Eden sob and Lani gasp and they ran toward it together.

It was another guard, holding a torch, and he looked relieved to see the two girls approach. "Lani Watson and Eden Lamarie?" he asked, and both Selected nodded.

"Get into the shelter room," the guard said, and Eden went to move past him, and then turned around impatiently as Lani hesitated.

"Sir," she said, and Eden looked at her like she was crazy.

"Lani, come on!"

"How many of the Selected girls are still outside the shelter room?"

The guard looked reluctant to say, but now that Eden realised what Lani was asking, she stepped forward and fixed him with that patented Lamarie gaze that had been known to reduce girls to tears in under twenty seconds.

"Ladies Charlotte, Anabel, Jesse, Trinidad, East, Evangeline, Clementine and Danielle."

Lani took a deep breath. That was one half of the Selected. Nearly half of the Selected still weren't safe.

Her friends weren't safe.

She and Eden stepped into the shelter room and she didn't know whether she or the prince were more surprised that Julien's first instinct was to hug the two girls as though he hadn't expected the pair to come back alive.

* * *

Through it all, Clementine caught only a brief glimpse of faces she recognised.

There was battle-hardened Jesse with a knife in her hands and a grimace on her face.

There was arrogant Demetrius shouting orders and rushing forward along with the guards, a gun on his arm.

There was poor, sweet Danielle, staying low to the ground as though she would not be noticed.

And in the middle of it all, was Clementine herself.

If she lived, she was going to give the guards a piece of her mind.

* * *

Clio distracted herself from the terror and chaos by putting herself away from the shelter room and the rebel attack and the palace. She put herself away from the palace, and she put herself back in Ottaro, back home, where she had belonged before all of this Selection nonsense and the rebel attack, and where she would belong afterwards.

Somewhere, out in the world, her sister Akhira was safe. Akhira was safe - Akhira was probably asleep - Akhira would not know any of this had happened until all of this was over.

This thought was far more soothing to Clio than any false promises the prince may have been offering Lani and Eden at that moment.

Clio had found herself holding Adalyn's hand, because Adalyn was frightened and Clio was not and it seemed like a kind thing to do and maybe it soothed Clio a little as well, although she wouldn't have admitted it in a million years.

Adalyn reminded Clio a little of Akhira. She was so eager to see the good in everyone and everything and saw every situation through those rose-coloured eyes of hers that she had no idea what to do when faced with a situation that could not possibly be construed as positive or optimistic.

The room was much smaller than Clio had thought it would be, almost claustrophobically so, and the girls had moved in tighter to one another, even though the space didn't require it. Maya Hartwick was crying quietly with Eilinora Winslow's arm around her, gingerly offering her a handkerchief. There were maybe twelve of them there in all - too few for them to feel safe or secure.

On Kelley Winston's other side, Rosalyn was silently adjusting Kalyana's hijab, which had come loose in the attack. Her hands shook only slightly - her face was pale. She was keeping her composure remarkably.

Julien had led Eden and Lani over to the group, and now he said something quiet to Lani and kissed her gently on the forehead before he continued down the line of girls, stopping and talking to each one in turn. His face was set in a determined kind of a look that did not allow any sympathy or kindness to show on his face, but it leaked through in his voice and in his gestures as he gently pushed back a strand of hair from Maya's face and spoke kindly to her. Eilinora manged a weak, watery, brave smile.

Clio noticed all of this from a detached vantage point. In her mind, she was at home in Ottaro telling Akhira how she had won the Selection, and how scary some of it had been, but it had turned out alright and they were going to be okay.

"It'll be okay," Clio said, and Adalyn might have believed her for the half second that elapsed before Kelley Winston, on the other side of Adalyn, pressed against the wall, spoke.

"I don't think it will."

* * *

Her name was Danielle Monroe, and she would have gladly amputated her entire arm in that exact moment if it had meant the pain would end.

She had been shot.

"God damn it," she said, and then couldn't help but sob as she tried to move further into the dining room. The rebels were in the Great Hall - they had glanced only briefly into the dining room as they separated, and she had lain still and played dead, but all it would take was one rebel deciding to check for survivors and she was dead.

She hadn't known where to go when the chaos had begun, because rebels had never come as far north as Lakedon and the idea of guns and shooting and murder in real-life was foreign to her in that way things are when they have only existed in the abstract. Guns belonged in movies and rebels belonged to the Report and murder happened to other people, it wasn't a reality, and it didn't happen right in front of you after dinner when you were wearing the nicest of your dresses and you were worrying about how to get the prince to notice you.

It just didn't.

She had been with Kelley and then Kelley had run ahead, and Danielle had fallen behind and there had been a sound like a gunshot (a gunshot, it had been a gunshot) and her arm had begun to burn.

Her dress, she noticed now, was ruined.

She had crawled, then, seeking shelter and somewhere away from the noise and the blood, and she had dragged herself, broken arm and all, close to the ground, collapsing down when she thought the rebels had returned, pushing through the pain and refusing to make a sound lest the rebels hear her and come back.

Not for herself. She had been worried some of the bodies in the foyer might have belonged to people who were still alive, and that if the rebels came back for her, they would kill the others as well.

Dead like all of the people around her.

Even as she thought this, the door to the dining room opened and she pressed her face into the floor and cringed away, and was surprised that the newcomer called her name.

"Danny? You good?"

She looked up - it was Trinidad and Anabel with Evangeline in tow. Trinidad held a deadly looking gun carefully in both hands, looking as uncomfortable with it as Danielle might have looked comfortable with a camera. Evangeline had a scrape across one cheek and a bruised eye, but seemed no worse for the wear.

"You alive?" Trinidad asked this time, not ungently, and Danielle nodded. Trinidad grasped her good arm to haul her up, and Anabel moved forward to slip an arm around Danielle's waist so that she could steady herself on legs that felt weaker than water.

"Is everyone else okay?" Danielle whispered, and Trinidad shook her head. Danielle's breath caught in her throat.

"Who - ?"

"We need to keep moving," was all that Anabel said. "You're going to go into shock, Danny, so we need to keep moving and you need to stay with us, okay?"

They were working as a team, Danielle realised. Anabel was team leader and Trinidad and her gun were the inexperienced, illadvised muscle, and Evangeline (well she didn't know what Evangeline was meant to be if she was imagining this as a military team, but Evangeline was there and that was what counted) and they weren't going to let her die.

Danielle nodded. She didn't feel like she was going to go into shock, but she supposed the Three would know better than she.

There were shouts from outside the dining room, in the hallway, and Evangeline caught Danielle by the arm - unfortunately, the one she had been shot in, so she had to bite her lip against the whimper that threatened to push past her lips. The four girls ducked against the wall, so that they could spy out into the hallway from a vantage point.

The rebels were moving along the hallway, and then there was a sudden movement and a man was shoved to his knees in front of the Great Hall and the tallest of the rebels pressed a gun to his forehead.

Danielle could feel her heart in her chest and in her throat and in her ears, everywhere everywhere everywhere, so loud that she was certain the rebels should have heard it and turned around and seen them and killed them. Anabel drew Danielle closer, as though she could tell how she was feeling.

The rebel leader spoke first.

"Where is the prince?"

Blood dripped past a split lip as he answered. "I'm _a_ prince."

Danielle could hear the smile in his voice.

"Last chance."

He laughed.

None of the girls seemed to be able to move. Even Anabel shook her head. Even without hearing her, Danielle understood what the girl was saying.

Saving him meant giving up themselves, and Anabel was more selfish than that.

The rebel leader sighed and, turning away from their captive, gestured to the tall woman with the gun. "He's not telling us anything."

The masked rebel woman nodded, and clicked off her safety, and then she jerked and blood exploded from her head, and she fell as the rebels turned to look for the shooter.

Sweet, quiet Evangeline Jones-Fitzwilliams lowered the gun and sighed.

* * *

_**Remaining Selected - 18:**_

Charlotte Cohen

Evangeline Jones-Fitzwilliams

Eden Lamarie

Katherin Matthews

Eilinora Winslow

Jesse Wren

Kalyana Khan

Clementine Georges

Lani Watson

East Smith

Adalyn Larson

Clio Nightingale

Anabel Moritz

Trinidad Mavuto

Kelley Winston

Danielle Monroe

Maya Hartwick

Rosalyn Akerman


	12. Chapter 12

**Thank you all for all your wonderful reviews - keep them coming, they're what keep me inspired! So please, do continue to tell me your interpretations of the characters, who you want to win, what you think will happen, your theories, preferred POVs, guesses as to who Demetrius' mystery girl is or should be, and what you think so far! Critique, especially the constructive kind, is greatly appreciated!**

** If any of you think of a subplot which would suit a character, don't hesitate to PM.**

**Also - most Selection SYOCs seem to bring some degree of interaction into the story, so I've decided to try that out. There is a new poll set up on my bio (hopefully- if it doesn't work, PM me) where you can vote for the next elimination.**

**I have just ****inished the plan and epilogue for this story, so I know roughly what happens - including who wins, although this could change at any time so continue to give me your thoughts in the reviews.**

* * *

Islana could still remember the first rebel attack she had experienced at the palace.

She had been upstairs with Angrec, on the fourth and highest floor, when the shouts began. They had been dusting and tidying and doing what maids did, and it had felt like an ordinary day with an ordinary sunrise and an ordinary sunset and everything ordinary in between.

They hadn't known what to do when the gunshots began - why would they? Islana was Angeles bred-and-born, the youngest of three generations of palace maids before her, and she had never known the viciousness of battle. Angrec was of western stock, accustomed to the slow pace of life in Honduragua, where the closest anyone came to conflict was a raised voice.

They had not needed to wonder long.

The royal family had been escorted awsy the second trouble reared its ugly head, but the maids had been offered no such consideration, so that when they ran for the kitchens, they fled right into the panic and chaos.

The rebels had grabbed them as they ran - young girls still, young girls at sixteen years old, and scared - and thet had been grabbed and, Islana remembered as though it were yesterday, the beautiful Angrec had been shoved to the ground and Islana had been forced to her knees with a gun against her head and in that split second between terror and salvation, she had been sure of death.

She had never been part of the equation, Islana. No one wanted to rescue her.

But then there had been a dull, strangled yell as the rebel was pulled off Angrec, and her own would-be-murderer had turned to look, and it had been so fast she could not remember what exactly had occured between the blur of faces and arms and movement.

What stayed with Islana was a single snapshot of the still, silent moment after.

She had realised in that moment that her unlikely salvation was two-fold- the first, the man dealing with the rebel attacker, was the sly-hearted Demetrius, and she had wondered at that, wondered at whether he was even permitted into the royal shelter room or whether he was left to fend for himself during the raids, as the staff were.

And then, running to help Angrec up, and then, when her legs collapsed beneath her, to hold her and shield her from what exactly Demetrius was doing, the sharp-eyed, tousle-haired Prince Julien, who looked at Angrec like she was the moon and all of the stars.

So he had left his shelter to find her, to help her, to save her. The beautiful, loveable Angrec.

Everyone else could have died for all they cared.

That was the first time Islana had wished she was beautiful.

And what had caught her attention about this moment was this - Julien had looked at Angrec, and Angrec had looked at Julien, and Demetrius had watched them both with something unguarded and awful on his face.

Angrec was beautiful, and that meant trouble.

That was also the last time Islana had wished she was beautiful.

* * *

The masked rebel woman nodded, and clicked off her safety, and then she jerked and blood exploded from her head, and she fell as the rebels turned to look for the shooter.

Sweet, quiet Evangeline Jones-Fitzwilliams lowered the gun and sighed.

In the split second of distraction that it took the rebels to identify where the bullet had come from and try to recognise which girl had shot, the dark-haired man that had been captured had grabbed the fallen rebel's weapon from her limp hand, and, turning, still on his knees, shot thrice, swiftly.

The rebels got only one shot off before it was all over.

Anabel had to close her eyes. She didn't want to see anymore.

There were three cracks and three dull impacts and then three thuds.

Three rebels lay dead.

With the danger gone for the momen, the man staggered to his feet, and Anabel opened her eyes again, just in time to cast them a quick, searching look. He looked even wilder than he had looked at dinner - then he had just been a troublemaker, a wild card, something for the girls to wonder ovwr and giggle at, and now he was blood-stained and bruised and scraped and even with the desperation etched in his face, he looked a little amused at the entire situation.

He was, Anabel realised slowly, absolutely insane.

He had to be. The smile, the laughter, even with the gun pressed to his head. As though he were taunting the rebel to finish it all.

"Nice shot, your ladyship," he managed before he had to spit out sone blood, and Evangeline did her very best to look humble, although her hands still shook with adrenaline and she still had the gun in her hands.

How had she done it? Anabel wondered. A single, deadly headshot. Like someone experienced, like someone trained. Nothing like Evangeline.

Anabel hadn't been prepared for the sheer amount of secrets people seemed to cling onto in the Selection, and of all the Selected, she hadn't expected Evangeline to harbour a skill like this - although the girl was so quiet, it wasn't hard to imagine there was plenty she had yet to show and tell. Looking at her companions, she wondered what any of them were hiding.

"Shouldn't you girls be with his royal Highness?" He twisted the title in his mouth, spat it out like so much blood.

"You're a royal too," Trinidad said calmly, and Anabel wondered just how she had deduced that from the few split seconds they had seen him for. "Aren't you?" He was silent. "Come with us."

"I am obligated," the man said bitterly. "To lay my life down in protection of my king and the crown prince. You have no such duty. Except to yourselves."

Anabel wanted to nod, to agree. Other guards had already died tonight. Other guards, other maids, other people, and if one more went forth and the girls did not stop him, then how could they be blamed?

"How do you suggest we do that?" Danielle said, and although Anabel had worried about her falling into shock, her voice was steady, if not particularly strong. "There'll be more than those three. How do we get past them, do you suggest?"

He looked a little irritated, and maybe a little superior, to have to help them. What a blow to his pride it must have been, to have himself saved by a group of air-headed girls - well, she supposed Evangeline had really been the one to save him, but the point stood. He was trying to regain his footing and his pride, and if anyone could, he would.

"I'll provide cover," he said slowly, and then he had to speed up significantly and duck into the dining room as a spray of bullets shattered the chandelier above him.

"Shit! I didn't realise having you guys around would be so much fun."

Definitely, definitely insane.

Footsteps outside, fast and cautious.

Trinidad raised her gun awkwardly, and the man looked mildly alarmed. "I wouldn't do that if I were you," he said. "Have you even-"

Trinidad fired.

There was a muffled, decidedly unfeminine swear outside and a sound like splintering wood, and Demetrius couldn't help but grin. "My, Lady Trinidad, I never knew you disliked Soldier Wren so much."

* * *

Death is only the end to the story if you assume the story is about you.

* * *

The door to the shelter room slid open, and Julien sprang to his feet from where he had been speaking quietly to Maya. Maya followed his movements with her gaze as he hurried to the entrance, where six figures stood silhouetted against the guard's light. The warm light pouring into the dark room burned her eyes as surely as the sun might after a year underground, and she had to blink rapidly against the tears.

"Is it over?" Julien asked tersely, and the tallest figure of the group, a man, shook his head.

"Give us ten more minutes. I figured you'd look after these guys for me so I don't have to haul them all around the castle chasing ghosts."

He gestured to his companions - as they stepped away from the light, a veritable beacon of blinding gold after the darkness of the shelter room, and came into the room, Maya recognised them as some of the other Selected. Before she could move, there were calls from one group to another and Rosalyn Akerman, always prone to sudden displays of affection, bounded to her feet to hug the two closest to her - the reticent Evangeline, her face as pale as milk, and the sweet Anabel, who returned the hug gladly. Besode them, Danielle Monroe clutched her arm as though she were afraid it might fall off, and bit her lip, her face drawn and grave. Trinidad Mavuto, always collected, supported her on one side, and the half-smiling Jesse held her up on the other.

Jesse's smile faded as she swept her gaze around the shelter room and came up empty. "Charlotte..." she began, and Katherin Matthews shook her head.

"Unaccounted for. There's still at least two of them out there."

Jesse looked half-inclined to go looking for her friend at exactly that moment, but as though she could tell what the other girl was thinking, Lani leapt to her feet to pull Jesse down, so that they were all sitting together as a group.

"Don't. The guards and the soldiers will handle it."

"I am a soldier," Jesse said, irritated.

Jesse was, Maya realised, bleeding, the entire bodice of her dress rust and scarlet.

"Did you kill someone?" someone asked, and after a split second of silence, Maya realised that it had been herself. How detached she felt from herself - as though she and her body were strangers, only recently acquainted. Some kind of shock caused by trauma and shock?

"More than one someone," Jesse said decidedly, and rested her head against the wall.

She was still holding a wickedly sharp knife, its curved handle slippery with the blood.

The girls fell silent, even the whispers of Clio and Adalyn, and Julien's voice rose above them.

"... attack in years. And how many of the girls...?"

"Three by my count," the man said, and there was a sound of agreement from the guard.

Julien sounded torn. "I'll go with you."

"You are the heir," the man said, his voice low. "And the king is dying. They're looking for you specifically, Julien. They will kill you, do you understand me? And then you'll be no help to anyone."

Julien was silent.

"The girls?"

The guard glanced at his list, but before he could speak, the man held up his hand. "I can guess. Soldier Cohen, Lady Clementine, Smith?"

His gaze traced the shelter room, lingering on Katherin Matthews and Eden Lamarie and Evangeline Jones-Fitzwilliams before he looked back to Julien.

"They'll be found, Julien."

"Ensure they are," was all that Julien said, and Lord Demetrius nodded as the door to the shelter room swung shut again and plunged them darkness once more.

* * *

Blood had turned to ice in Charlottes's veins the second the rebels grabbed her.

Because she did not want to go gently, because that wasn't the type of girl Soldier Cohen was and she would always, always be Soldier Cohen, no matter how desperately hard she wanted to pretend otherwise, to put on the face of Lady Charlotte and pretend.

Soldier Cohen wanted to stop. She wanted to fight. She wanted to win. She wanted to hurt them as badly as they had hurt the others - all the innocent maids and young guards whose bodies littered the ground like so many autumn leaves.

But she couldn't.

The ice reached her nerves as she considered it - it wasn't a lack of firearms, although that was a concern also, if she was honest with herself.

It was a concern, but not a reason.

To Charlotte, the phrase 'it's not about winners or losers, but how you played the game' had no bearing on the real-world. She had fought, and she had killed in New Asia. She was a realist. She knew that this was a battle as much as anything in life was, and those who lost would die.

She didn't want to lose.

She didn't want to die.

She didn't want to kill.

The ice kept its awful grip on her as the rebels pulled her away, and she wanted to fight them, but memories of the war crowded in on any vague thoughts she might have had of plans and strategies and tactics, threatening to choke her.

She couldn't.

She hated herself.

She couldn't.

She was lost.

She couldn't.

Derek. Derek, whose plane had exploded seconds from takeoff. Derek, whose parents had not even received a whole body to bury. Derek, who had taught Charlotte how to make emergency landing on water by closong his eyes and hoping for the best.

(footsteps)

The rebel camp on the Sumner-Zuni border, the rebel camp that had not been a rebel camp at all, the rebel camp that had been a refugee camp, the rebel camp that had burned as innocent people died.

(shouts)

The air-fights. The sound of an exploding engine and the screams of the pilots as they went down because no matter how experienced you were, no matter how often you fought and bled and killed, death was still a frightening, horrific prospect and those people were afraid.

(gunfire)

Demetrius.

(what?)

Because that wasn't a memory of the war. That was now, that was right in front of her, and he was crouching even as he hauled her upwards, holding her by the shoulders and forcing her to look at him, acting like a soldier when she was the soldier and he was the lord and the idea that he knew she was being weak forced her to sit upright and meet his gaze.

"I am not weak."

She hadn't meant to say it out loud.

"I don't imagine you are. Is East with you? Was East with you? Are you injured? Char, darling, you have to talk to me. Are you okay? Have you seen Clementime or Smith? "

Charlotte shook her head and Demetrius took a deep breath bedore he nodded. "Right. Okay. I'll get you to shelter and then I'll find her. Come on Soldier Cohen, we have to find some kind of cover. There's more of them out there."

She wondered if maybe he was a soldier, because he was acting like one. This was how soldiers kept shock and concussions at bay - reminding each other of their rank, of the task at hand, not to let go or stop moving, just moving, moving, moving.

She nodded and he helped her up, and when his arms went around her as they moved away from the truck the rebels had been about to force her into, the ice in her veins could not help but melt away.

* * *

"I want to go home," Kalyana whispered, and it was the only moment of weakness to break through her armour, but it was enough.

* * *

He found her in an empty room.

He had spoken to the girl they called the Eight only thrice, but the first thing he always noticed about her was that her gaze was like knives.

"If I die?"

"I won't let that happen."

"Promise me."

"I never promise."

"Good. I don't trust people who promise the impossible."

* * *

When it was all over and the dust had cleared, Julien found himself the blood-stained steps of the main case of sweeping stairs, his father at his side, as they surveyed the disaster.

It was the deadliest attack in the palace's history.

So many bodies.

"We're not safe here," the king said and the prince turned to look at him. "They've raided us more often in the last few months than in the entire duration of my reign, did you know that? They're getting braver, too. The palace is too vulnerable. If we stay here, people will die."

Julien was silent for a moment. "How did they know?"

"What do you mean?"

"You said they were getting braver, and they are, but that's not all. They chose the exact right moment to attack - just after dinner, when everyone was off guard and in the corridors. The exact minute that the change-over of guards occured. The location with the most inexperienced guards stationed. It's not bravery, it's knowledge."

"They knew what they were doing."

"Someone told them. Someone had to have told them."

Two days after the Selection began, the deadliest attack in the palace's long and bloody history. Fifty people dead in the foyer. It was a bloodbath, but Julien couldn't force himself to grieve. He had not even known their faces. They had been maids and guards and waiters, part of the walls, part of the palace itself, and although it saddened himself to see them where they lay, where they had been slaughtered, he could not bring himself to care for them.

A good king hid his heart behind a coat of steel.

"The Selected," King Maxon said, and Julien did not want to agree with him.

"It's most likely," he said, but his thoughts could not help but stray to Demetrius, who was unpredictable and angry and hateful at the best of times, and then to Islana, who had agreed easily enough to spy for Julien and give him information - who was to say he was the only one?

No. That wasn't fair.

Nothing about this was fair.

"Which girl?"

Julien considered this carefully even as he watched a maid below move the body of her colleague out of the way so that the guards could carry in some of their injured. Demetrius was not among them, injured or otherwise, and he hoped that he was okay.

But which of the Selected?

He could only guess at three.

The quiet, secretive East Smith, the Eight who came from the rebel's home province as a girl from the streets, where vulnerable kids were taken and trained as child soldiers for the rebels' cause, as a girl who had shown herself unafraid of using a gun with surprising skill, as a girl who had not been seen since it all began.

The war-hardened Charlotte Cohen, who despite her military prowess and all of her won battles, had refused to even fight against the rebels when they came for her, who had disappeared as soon as the conflict began and reappeared once it ended.

Although he considered for a moment Evangeline, he soon dismissed it as fanciful thinking. The girl had killed a rebel leader - true, her skill with the firearm was surprising, but that did not mean she was a rebel or the informer that had betrayed them all.

"I don't know, sir. It's only been two days... I barely know their faces."

The king nodded. "In any case, the palace is no longer a haven. I'll arrange for our movement to the northern castle until the Selection is over. We are weak at the moment, Julien - so many strangers in the palace we cannot trust, and if any one of them were to die, it would only fuel the rebels' support."

This surprised Julien. The rebels had support?

"Yes, sir," he said, and King Maxon put a hand on his shoulder.

"I need to be able to rely on you, Julien." His hands were weak, his voice failing, but his gaze was strong. "In the end, we will all rely on you. Our king."

Yes, the king, Julien thought bitterly. King of a wasteland.

* * *

Time passed, as time must,and they prepared for the move to the castle over two, then three weeks as October melted into November and drew towards December.

Danielle Monroe was sent to hospital as soon as the palace was given the all-clear, and then returned to her family to try and recover - from the injury, from the trauma, from seeing people killed in front of her. Kalyana Khan went home the next day, home to where the restaurant was quiet and her family were loving and rebels existed only in the distance.

Time passed, as time must.

* * *

_**Remaining Selected - 16:**_

Charlotte Cohen

Evangeline Jones-Fitzwilliams

Eden Lamarie

Katherin Matthews

Eilinora Winslow

Jesse Wren

Clementine Georges

Lani Watson

East Smith

Adalyn Larson

Clio Nightingale

Anabel Moritz

Trinidad Mavuto

Kelley Winston

Maya Hartwick

Rosalyn Akerman


	13. Chapter 13

**Thank you all for all your wonderful reviews - keep them coming, they're what keep me inspired! So please, do continue to tell me your interpretations of the characters, who you want to win, what you think will happen, your theories, preferred POVs, guesses as to who Demetrius' mystery girl is or should be, and what you think so far! Critique, especially the constructive kind, is greatly appreciated!**

** If any of you think of a subplot which would suit a character, don't hesitate to PM.**

**Also - most Selection SYOCs seem to bring some degree of interaction into the story, so I've decided to try that out. There is a new poll set up on my bio (hopefully- if it doesn't work, PM me) where you can vote for the character receiving an unfair amount of attention in the story.**

**So sorry for the awful delay! The next one should be up sooner, and while this and the next are breather chapters allowing development of characters and relationships, the chapter after next will answer one of the mysteries you have been guessing at.**

**Also also - if any of you are interested or have the time, please do check out my new SYOC, _Devil Drawing Near, _a quasi-original paranormal dystopian story about a dysfunctional and cursed crime family! All of my readers and the submitted characters to this story were amazing, so I would love to see some submissions from you on _Devil Drawing Near. _**

* * *

Islana was an Angeles girl, if anyone was. She belonged to the sunshine and warmth of day as surely as anything did - she was certain that she would find herself withering away in the cold at the northern castle, especially as by the time that the move was complete and the maids were set to work making the place ready for human inhabitance, winter grew close and the days grew short.

She was going to freeze to death, she decided.

Reesa and Qalu found this hilarious, of course.

Islana was the strong one - Qalu, always pretty and delicate and sunshiney, looked paradoxically even more so with the long, jagged scar stretching from the corner of her mouth that made it appear as though she were perpetually smiling at the world. Reesa, tall and willowy and fine-boned, was of the emotionally delicate variety - she fell in and out of love easily, and no matter what happened, her heart would break.

It didn't make what Demetrius had done to her any better, of course.

Compared to them, Islana was an ugly statue carved from ice, someone with thorns around her heart. She thought she liked it better like that, anyway.  
With only sixteen girls remaining, the rooms they were allowed were bigger and more homely. Islana directed her contigent, now swollen large with maids without work after their Selected's elimination, to roll out inch-thick carpets and ensure that the beds were heaped high with feather blankets, the kind a girl like Islana would only ever know in the abstract, or maybe from washing and drying them. The windows were sealed and thick, heavy curtains swept in front of them to insulate from the freeze - the roads were shovelled and swept and sprinkled with salt - fires were lit in each and every fireplace so that soon the castle was aglow with dancing shadows.

Islana became accustomed to her new role as the human dragon, her breath steaming in front of her as she stamped her feet to keep warm and yelled at guards to think about what they were doing goddammit didn't they know those were china and had belonged to Queen Amberley herself what were they thinking Jesus Christ she might as well do it herself.

But of all these slow, thankless jobs, Islana endured them for the one duty she enjoyed the most. She had been at the northern castle only once before, as a young girl with her hand still clutched by her grandmother as they prepared for the marriage of the Lady May there.

The ballroom.

She could remember her grandmother pushing open the wooden doors, and she had had to gasp, her four-year old mind caught up and spinning with fairy-tale thoughts of grand dances with servant girls and handsome princes and friendly strangers and magic around every corner, beneath every chandelier dripping with diamonds. She had dreamed about the dances she might someday attend - provided that her fairy godmother showed up in time, and she had finished all of her jobs for the day - where she could wear a long dress and allow everyone to see her hair and flirt with a handsome prince, or a pretty princess, because Islana wasn't really picky when it came to fairytales.  
She should have known that the only role she would ever play in a fairytale was that of the fairy godmother.

She clapped her hands together and blew on them softly to keep herself warm, before she nodded firmly and got to work.

* * *

Anabel peered out the windows as the helicopter hovered low over the castle lawn, sending ripples of air over the the emerald grass. The sound of the whirring blades was absolutely deafening - she and the other girls in the booth, Katherin and Eilinora, had long since given up on attempting to make any kind of conversation on the long, dark journey northwards, although the noise was such that no one could slip easily into sleep instead. Instead, they had all remained lost and silent in their own thoughts, the other girls looking as grave and solemn as Anabel felt.

Everything at the Angeles palace had been clean-cut and shone, like a finely polished, newly-honed diamond, but here, everything seemed to have been crudely hewn from stone. Anabel wasn't sure that she liked the rougher, coarser look of this place - although, to be fair, it looked far more secure, more like a fortress than any kind of a delicate palace. The long, wild lawns went on, stretched onwards, for what seemed like forever, dissipating and fading gradually into several series of spidering paths that disappeared into the woods which bordered the sharp mountains that pierced the rain-streaked sky.

The castle itself was a formidable building - the stone was charcoal, the tiers as sharp as scalpels. Like something from a storybook.  
The helicopter made its landing, and the noise softened so gradually that Anabel barely realised it was weakning until she could hear it no longer. Her ears rang with the vibration of sound. She was the first to reach over and unlatch the lock, allowing the tiny stepladder to unfold from where it had been tucked into the door. Before anyone could make a move to descend, however, a few of the groomsmen and guards that stood silent sentry at the walls and at the doors and at each of the paths had run over to assist them. Anabel was pathetically glad - she had been so long in the helicopter her legs felt weak, and she feared falling head-first if she tried to go down herself.

"Thank you," she said, but she didn't think that the guard was paying her any attention, as he immediately continued on to help Katherin. Anabel held her skirts down against the wind created by the still-rotating blades, and hurried across the lawn, vaguely aware of Katherin and Eilinora behind her. A small black dot against the horizon spoke of a second helicopter - the girls had, as was becoming typical, been sent in relays so that if anything happened, it would only affect a few individuals.

Anabel really hoped nothing happened.

She turned, as she reached the long path in front of the castle's austere wooden door, and smiled at the other girls who had been in the helicopter with her - she didn't know them as well as she would have liked, but she had only noticed perhaps three girls in the Selection who could be described as competitive or nasty, so she chose to give these two the benefit of the doubt.  
"I'm surprised I can still hear!" she remarked with a laugh, and Eilinora smiled along with her. Katherin was a little more quiet - she tended to stay by herself and stay thinking when she was in a group, a tendency that Anabel might have called secretive if they weren't sharing a Selection with East and Evangeline, the two girls who gave an entirely new depth to the words clandestine. Katherin, Anabel noticed for the first time, had the same kind of slyness to her eyes - not as much as East did, but noticeably so, as though she were unaccustomed to the weight of a secret on her shoulders.

Eilinora did not share these traits - she linked arms with Anabel quite happily, and the small group proceeded up the stone steps to the formidable door of the castle, which swung open at their approach, a small, slender maid behind it.

The maid was silent.

If the palace had been large, then there was no words to describe this castle. The foyer into which the doors opened was cavernous, tiled with marble and slate, rising into a large dome sprouting of golden chandeliers and silver, earring-like torches. Straight in front of Anabel, the stairs swept upwards for several metres of pure white marble and golden railings, before it divided into two and disappeared into the balconies.

Julien was sitting on the second-to-last step of the staircase, but stood so hastily upon seeing the girls that on another person it would have looked clumsy. He had, Anabel noted with a slight tremor of jealousy stirring her heartstrings, been deep in conversation with one of the many uniformed, anonymous maids - she did not blush or flush upon having been caught in this situation, as Anabel was certain she would have, but merely stood, brushed off her uniform, and disappeared into one of the corridors.

"Ladies Anabel, Eilinora, Katherin," he said, and walked to within about a few feet of them, careful to keep himself at a distance from the girls - since the day of the raid, he had not shown them any of the same kind of affection or concern that he had expressed in the shelter room. He was back to the same kind of distant, icy person that they had first met at the palace, although Anabel found it all the stranger now that she knew he was capable of kindness. "I hope your flight was enjoyable."

"Not the word I would have used," Anabel said cheerfully, despite all of Klara's instructions on the correct ways to address the prince - flippant remarks were certaintly not appropriate. Beside her, Eilinora and Katherin dipped into picture-perfect curtsies that Anabel didn't even try to imitate; she knew she would make a fool of herself if she did, so she just gave a short bow from the waist, at which Julien did not seem displeased - since Klara didn't seem to be present, Anabel guessed that she would get away with it.

"I'll have Nani show you to your rooms," Julien said, gesturing to yet another maid on the sidelines of the hall - honestly, how many maids did this place have?

Not that many anymore.

Anabel suppressed the thought before it could take over her. The rebel attack had been three, maybe four, long weeks ago, but she had spent the time since pretending nothing had happened during the day and reliving the awful events every night - the deaths, the bloods, the screams. Somedays, she even persuaded herself that she believed she was over it, but every night, without fail, she would dream about it and wake up crying.

"Lady?"

"Pardon?" Anabel turned to the maid - Annie was her name, wasn't it? No, Nani.

"I'll show you to your room now, if you please, your ladyship." Eilinora was gone - Anabel guessed her room was in a different area of the castle - and now the maid looked at Katherin and Anabel expectantly.

"Ah - yes. Pardon me. Yes, that sounds good."

Katherin looked a little questioning at this reaction, but Anabel tried to remain impassive. The girls who had spent the duration of the attack in the shelter room didn't suffer from the same kind of panic attacks and misgivings she and the others did - they had been removed from the action, the death, the violence was just words to them but it was reality and memory to Anabel and Trinidad and Danielle and the others.

Katherin Matthews couldn't have understood that. The story went that she had been the last to leave from the dining hall after dinner when the attacks began, and Lord Demetrius, who tended to be the last or first out of any room, had escorted her to the shelter room before going to assist the guards. Anabel had a tough time believing that the kind of man that Lord Demetrius was, and she wasn't talking about master of the hunt, could ever be selfless enough to do such a thing. Maybe, because he wasn't royalty or Selected, he was not permitted in the shelter room. Maybe, as he had told the small group of girls who had saved his life, he really did have a duty to lay down his life for the prince. Maybe if he hadn't, it would have been a charge of treason and a beheading for him, and he had opted for an uncertain death rather than a certain one.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

But Anabel did know this: by the time Katherin had emerged from the bunker, the worst of the damage had been cleared away. She hadn't seen so much as a speck of blood in the course of the raid.

Anabel evied her. She really, really did.

* * *

"I wasn't expecting you to be here so early."

"You're not exactly disappointed that I am, though, right? You're not expecting another girl to turn up here, I suppose?"

"Of course not."

"You're an awful liar."

"I never pretended otherwise."

He smiled.

He always smiled. She had never seen him otherwise.

He was beautiful when he smiled.

She wished he trusted her enough not to smile.

* * *

Maya was glad, pathetically so, to see that all of girls had arrived at the northern castle alive.

They filed now into the Grand Hall, the castle equivalent of the Great Hall, this one stone and slate and marble, solid and intimidating where the palace had been delicate and fine. One girl after another, each one dressed as beautifully as the next. Blood had been scrubbed from faces and hands and beneath nails and hair, bruses had healed, wounds now took the form of fine stitching and barely noticeable scars.

"I wish we got this kind of treatment during the war," Jesse Wren had said from her bed beside Maya while they recuperated side-by-side after the raid - Jesse had been been shot in her left shoulder by an unhelpful Trinidad, Maya had suffered a blunt-force head wound, and both were too exhausted and pained and scared to be unfriendly or informal. "In New Asia, you spat in a wound, you poured some vodka in there, and you prayed no one had pissed in the bottle when you weren't looking."

Maya had laughed. "It must have worked miracles. You have such a good face."

"Never let those soldiers near my face. Girl's gotta have_ some_ priorities, Hartwick."

Then Jesse had passed out from blood loss, because she was fierce like that, and then two minutes she was awake again and insisting she be let of bed, because half an hour was time enough for her to be lazy.

It hadn't been bluster or bravado - true to her word, she had talked and pushed and insisted her way past the nurses and doctors and within fifteen minutes, Maya could see her out the window, pulling a rebel's corpse from the rose garden and acting like she was generally still a soldier.

Maya had laid in bed and wondered whether it would be weak of her to go home.

Now, she was glad that she hadn't. There were sixteen girls left, and she was one of them. She had a one in sixteen chance of winning. One in fifteen, if you discounted the Eight, which most girls usually did. After the raid, there had been a hasty tally of girls - Eden had stated that there were fifteen Selected left, 'practically the Elite', and East herself had let it pass until fiesty Clementine and sweet Rosalyn had insisted on pointing out her existence to the arrogant Two. Eden, to her credit, had simply amended herself. They were all too exhausted from the raid to bother being bitchy or cruel or arrogant.

"Sixteen. Well, nearly practically the Elite."

The girls sat, Anabel at the front of the group, sitting in the first row of four, four girls in each row and column. Clio Nightingale sat next to her - it had been a surprise to everyone when that girl had stayed, Anabel knew. Clio had a little sister at home who would not survive without her, a sister who worshipped her like a hero from a fairytale, but the thought of leaving did not seem to even have occurred to Clio.

It was strange to not even have empty seats where Danielle and Kalyana should have been.

The click of Klara's shoes were unmistakeable, even on the unfamiliar marble of the castle. The woman herself, slim as a reed, did not seem to have been harmed or even affected by the raid - she was as poised and as elegant as she had ever been.

"Good morning, ladies!" she sang out as she took her position at the front of the group. She swivelled on her heels to face them, a slight smile on her face - politeness more than anything else. "Glad to see you all looking so lovely today. Time for everyone to get serious - from here on in, you have no friends. You have no allies. There is only the Selection."

She kept smiling throughout. It was unnerving, Maya decided. Very unnerving.

"With only sixteen remaining," Klara continued. "We have decided to put you all to the test! After all, the victor of the Selection will not only be Prince Julien's wife, but also the queen of Illea! So."

She spun again on her heels, walked back the way she had come, stopped, turned, walked, stopped, turned, walked. A human pendulum.

"With the recent raids, violence, unrest," Klara said, one hand patting her elegant, elaborate updo into place with knife-sharp nails. "We believe tjat it is important to uplift the spirit of the nation. And with the winter festival just around the corner, what better way to do this than holding a grand dance - an occasion to inspire the nation - a winter party - a fairytale ball?"

Maya could feel more than see the other girls' excitement about this idea, and her own feelings mirrored this. It sounded like a good idea, she thought - she herself wouldn't have minded something light-hearted, something fun after all the drama of the past month or two. She felt like she had forgotten what fun felt like.

"Of course, this will not be frivolous fun," Klara continued, and Maya felt her face fall, as well as Kelley's beside her. "You girls will each be taking responsibility for a certain aspect of the occasion and complete it to show your aptitude for such skills, talents and challenges - and the entire thing will of course be broadcast."

"Propaganda," someone behind Anabel murmured - she couldn't tell who, because at that same moment several other girls began to whisper about what they would or would not like to be responsible for. Maya felt butterflies dance in her stomach - with the rebel attack only two days into their Selection and then relocating and relief to deal with, the girls had yet to appear on a single Report, which had been dedicated to news about just how well the government forces were handling the uprising in Zuni - no mention was made, she noticed, of the attack on the palace, despite the deaths. As a result of this and the prince's constant abscence helping his father, the girls had been left bored for the past four weeks. This, at least, promised to be interesting.

"Your duties will be delivered to your rooms," Klara said. "And there is to be no sabotage, girls. This is also a good time to show your sportsmanship. Run a good game against one another - be the best you can be, and don't bother about what the other girls are doing."

Eden flipped her hair back and began talking in earnest with Lani and Adalyn on either side of her. It was a strange friendship between Eden and Lani, Maya thought. Ever since the attack, the glamorous Two and the sensible Six had been more amicable than anyone had expected - a side effect of fleeing side by side and refusing to leave one another behind under any circumstances, she supposed.

If anyone could pull off something like this, Maya thought, it would be Eden and Lani. Lani was a one-man organisational army when she put her mind to things, and Eden scarily able to convince people of her point of view. The two would be a terrifying team.

The only three girls not discussing this news were Charlotte Cohen, who had been subdued and grey-looking since the attack, unable to make eye contact with Lord Demetrius when the girls had met him on a walk in the woods while he was hunting, or indeed with anyone else; East Smith, who was not prone to talk anyway; and Katherin Matthews, who seemed to be growing quieter and quieter as the competition continued. Maya leaned over to her, just in case there was some feud she was unaware of causing Katherin's ostracisation. "Do you think photography would count as a responsibility?"

Katherin looked almost startled, as though she had forgotten where she was. "It's a kind of art, isn't it? You could probably do the decorations and the theme and the like and take photos during."

Maya shook her head. "I'm no artist."

Katherin smiled. "Well, at least you have a skill. What's a tutor from Sota meant to do?"

"Tutors are smart," Maya reminded the other girl. "Organising things take smart people, or so I hear."

Katherin laughed a little at that. "I don't feel very smart half the time, but you're right. I guess it does."

Maya sat back in her chair, and looked straight ahead. She was going to win this, she told herself. She was going to win.

There was no lose.

* * *

_**Remaining Selected - 16:**_

Charlotte Cohen

Evangeline Jones-Fitzwilliams

Eden Lamarie

Katherin Matthews

Eilinora Winslow

Jesse Wren

Clementine Georges

Lani Watson

East Smith

Adalyn Larson

Clio Nightingale

Anabel Moritz

Trinidad Mavuto

Kelley Winston

Maya Hartwick

Rosalyn Akerman


	14. Chapter 14

**Here it is - much faster than the last one, thankfully, although slightly shorter - another transitional one, as the next chapter is heavy on plot and drama and mystery! **

**Thank you all for all your wonderful reviews - keep them coming, they're what keep me inspired! So please, do continue to tell me your theories, preferred POVs, guesses as to who Demetrius' mystery girl or the informer is or should be, ****your interpretations of the characters, who you want to win, what you think will happen, ****and what you think so far! Critique, especially of the constructive kind, is greatly appreciated! I'm especially interested in your opinions of the character portrayals - is anyone inconsistent? Who is your favourite and least favourite characters?**

**Also - most Selection SYOCs seem to bring some degree of interaction into the story, so I've decided to try that out. Each chapter, there will be a new poll set up on my bio, where you can vote for a large range of categories. This chapter's poll is about the 'mystery girl'. Please vote!**

**Also also - if any of you are interested or have the time, please do check out my new SYOC, _Devil Drawing Near, _a quasi-original dystopian story about a dysfunctional and cursed crime family who are destined to kill one another. All of my readers and the submitted characters to this story are amazing, so I would love to see some submissions from you on _Devil Drawing Near_! **

* * *

Islana liked to think that she still had at least a little bit of pride left, even if it was just the merest scrap of the stuff. When Julien told her to do something, she jumped to it, like it or not, and she didn't think that doing what she had to do to get paid affected her pride in anyway. At least, it shouldn't.

She tried to tell herself that again as she went through the Selected's belongings.

Julien had insisted that it hadn't asked her to do this as a weird way of trying to get to know the girls at all, for which Islana was grateful. He was only interested in finding out one of the girls' secrets in this clandestine way – the rest of their secrets, he had assured Islana, he was happy to let remain secret.

Julien only wanted to find the informer.

Islana was kind of grateful that was the only reason. She didn't think that she could have handled it if thoughtful, wry-eyed Julien had inherited any of Demetrius' quasi-stalker tendencies.

Julien just wanted to make sure, Islana told herself. He just wanted to ensure that none of the girls had betrayed the entire royal family, palace, nation.

Islana wasn't entirely certain that kind of knowledge could be gleaned from a room alone.

She was entirely certain that such a duty should not have been left to a simple maid such as herself.

But then, he didn't want the girls to know he suspected a thing – if one of them, or indeed, anyone else in the castle, was an informer, he didn't want to give them advance knowledge of his suspicions.

It was taking her much longer to go through all of the rooms than she had thought it would – rich people had so many bloody hiding places in their goddamn huge rooms, which was infuriating to stay the least. She knew this from first-hand experience, of course – when Demetrius had been young, or at least, younger, there had been quite a few searches performed upon his rooms. Of course, these days the only people who went into Demetrius' quarters were there for quite a different reason, which was why Islana hadn't stepped inside the rooms for many, many years.

The curtains could have secret compartments carefully, intricately sewn into the fabric; there were secret drawers built into the bottom of some beds for the hiding of those materials that no one wanted found; tiny alcoves hidden in the chimney, just large enough for packets of drugs or notes or a weapon.

Of course, Islana did not find any of these things while she searched the girls' rooms.

She didn't know whether she was disappointed or not.

She decided that she wasn't.

She didn't care particularly. The machinations of the royals, the dance of the aristocracy, were not the concern of the maids, and certainly not of Islana Loss.

Unless Julien told her that they were.

Then they were.

Clio Nightingale's room, the room that Islana was searching now, was bare but for the photos of her aunt and sister tucked carefully into the corner of the vanity table's mirror. Islana barely glanced at the pictures - she had had a sister once, so Akhira Nightingale's smile and bright eyes made her look away hastily and resume riffling through the Selected's clothes.

The door unlocked.

Islana ripped the nearest dress from its hanger and, hoping that poor, hardworking Carrin forgave her for desecrating her hard work, ripped the sleeve nearly entirely off the garment and spun around as the door opened. She held up the dress and gestured impatiently to the maid who entered - Carrin herself.

"I had a complaint from her ladyship," Islana said, and felt awful when Carrin went gray.

"I didn't -" Carrin stammered.

"I'll have it fixed. You're better than this, Cari."

Islana pushed past the other maid and hoped that she had left the room mostly as she had found it - no bed left unturned, no curtains left flipped the wrong way around, no clothes left bedraggled.

She heard Carrin swear quietly under her breath at herself, berate herself for what had happened.

Islana hoped that this was worth it. She hated making her fellow maids feel little - the same way that she felt whenever the royals so much as looked at her.

She hoped Julien was grateful.

Who was she kidding? Of course he wouldn't be.

Royalty weren't exactly in the habit of being grateful to anyone for anything.

Heading back down to the kitchen, Islana draped the dress over the laundry basket and promised herself that she would repair it on Carrin's behalf before the lady even noticed its disappearance.

She mentally marked off Clio Nightingale's room in her mind – just another twelve rooms to go, she thought with a sigh. And with an average of one girl a day, what with trying to keep up with her usual tasks and doing a thorough search of each room, it would be a few days after the ball itself before she came close to finishing each room.

A few more weeks of this, and going back to normal work would be like a vacation for her.

She really could not wait.

* * *

If there was one thing that Lani knew, it was that she would make a terrible, terrible queen.

The ball was going to be a mess, and East Smith seemed to find it all wonderfully, terribly amusing.

Lani had thought that the tasks would be doled out according to skills and talents of the girls, but apparently this draw had been as random as the Selection was meant to be. What would a Six know about arranging the music for a Christmas dance? she wondered. She had already approached Clementine for help, but the other girl had pointed out that, although a Five, she was an artist rather than a musician, and weren't they meant to complete their tasks on their own, anyway?

Lani sighed, and turned back to her lists. She and East were the only two girls left in the Secretarial Room - the King's office when he was in the castle, now converted into a general room for the organisation of the dance. There was a desk for each girl, and only East's was bare - she had her boots propped up on it, laces trailing, and was cutting up an apple with a wicked-looking knife, looking at the whiteboard at the other side of the room upon which the general organisation of the ball was being coordinated, each girl adding to it as she completed her task.

Eden was finished already, of course, only a week into the task with two weeks left to go until the dance itself.

"I did a photo-shoot in Italy last summer," she had told Lani over breakfast that morning. "And my father is a diplomat - he was ambassador to New Asia before the war -so it was a piece of cake to arrange for the Italian prince and the Italian-Illean ambassador to attend."

Lani was glad for a friend like Eden. She had a tongue as sharp as her eyes, but she was the kind of confident, glamorous girl that Lani had only ever cleaned the houses of before the Selection. Even if it had taken an event like the raid to bring them that bit closer together, Lani was glad, even if Clementine and Eden were so very often at one another's throats.

"So we have the special guests," Lani had replied. "Now we just need music for them to dance to."

"No pressure," Eden had said with a slight smirk.

Now, Lani crossed put an item on her list with a viciousness that sent her pen through the paper. Music should have been an easy enough job, but she wanted it to be perfect. That meant finding musicians, a singer, composing playlists, arranging speeches, setting up the sound system and ensuring that the prince would like all of the music. She had been unable to speak to him since the task had been set, so that she was left guessing at what he would like - the kind of Atlins, bassy music that had played in the limousine on the way to the palace, all those weeks ago? The sweet classical Carolina tunes that Queen America was famous for? The kind of slow, low music she sometimes heard spilling from beneath Demetrius' door at night?

She crossed out another list and looked over at East.

"What are you doing?"

"Eating."

"I meant, for the ball."

East looked at Lani as though she didn't have any idea what she was talking about, and then she nodded. "Oh. Right. I'm arranging the food."

East was a strange one, Lani thought. Lani herself had seen East disappear into the dust and smoke during the fight at the palace, and then as far as she knew, the other girl hadn't been seen until four or five hours had passed after the raid. She had come downstairs wearing a hoody that was too big for her and a bandage on her throat and shoulder and the kind of ripped jeans that only an Eight would wear. East had only said that she had been recovering, and as far as the Eight was concerned, that was that.

"How's that going?"

East shrugged.

Lani really wished she could be that devil-may-care.

* * *

"You want my opinion?"

"I never do." Julien looked at Demetrius from across his lists - of armies, of supply routes, of Selected girls. His was a busy work day.

"The girls."

Julien traced his pencil across the page thoughtfully.

"I don't think I want to hear your opinion on any girl."

Silence for a moment.

"Go ahead." Sometimes Julien just couldn't hide his curiosity.

"Get rid of the Eight," Demetrius said, and Julien nearly smiled - like clockwork. Every time the damn subject came up, Demetrius would say the same thing.

_Get rid of the Eight._

But Julien knew he would never fall in love with a girl like East. He could be friends with her, but never in love, and that meant that East was _safe_. She was a safe choice, like Islana had been, because she was nothing like Angrec and she never would be.

None of the girls were like Angrec.

He hated thinking about Angrec around Demetrius.

"Okay. The Eight. As usual. Go on."

Demetrius shrugged. "The Three - you know, the one with the braid. The second Six. The Two with the bad hair."

"I have no idea who any of these people are."

"I know your girls better than you do." Demetrius smirked. "You know, I never really thought you'd stay true to your word. You really haven't-?"

"Taken advantage of them? I really haven't."

"Stronger man than I."

Another silence for a moment.

"You know who you should marry?"

Julien glanced at Demetrius and threw his papers back to the table, knowing he would get no more work done.

"Who?"

"The soldier."

"The soldier? Charlotte Cohen, the war hero? I thought you-"

Demetrius interrupted before Julien could say anything else. "The other one. Wren. Girl knows how to handle herself in a tough situation. Uses that knife like it's a part of her. She's the only one I could see myself putting up with as a sister-in-law."

"I'll keep that in mind."

* * *

"How do you know?"

America's eyes were kind. They always were. Warm, kind, generous, words that he had tired of hearing spoken again and again about the queen. But it was all true. She was kind, and she was warm, and she was generous, and she cared when she shouldn't, and she cared about those no one else cared about.

"Know? Know what?" Her kind eyes creased with a smile. Her long red hair, still as vibrant as ever, but now threaded through with silver and steel, shone beneath a wan midday sun that crept through the spaces between the roses. "That the girl is the one? Maybe you won't. But if you're anything like me, then you'll feel it. Like tiny hooks in your heart, drawing you towards her. A pain when she's not there. Your blood turns to sparks and fire when you see her smile, and all you want to do is see her smile again and again. And you can't help but smile when you are with her. I can't explain it sweetheart. You just know."

He nodded. "Well, then."

He knew.

* * *

Kelley was not the artistic sort, so when it came down to the last week and a half before the ball and she had still to finish her decoration of the ballroom, she realized that she was starting to get just a little bit desperate.

Bit only a little bit.

It didn't help that nearly all of the other girls seemed to have completed their part, or at least pretended to have. Kelley had her suspicions about Rosalyn Akerman who had claimed to be done two weeks into the task and then been caught handing a long list of requirements to one of the maids.

But even including Rosalyn, that left a grand total of three out of sixteen girls still left chasing loose ends. East Smith seemed vaguely surprised every time someone brought up the dance; Rosalyn Akerman still made long lists of flowers and plants at every opportunity, changing her mind every few hours as she thought of something new; and Kelley herself was still chasing Lani Watson and Rosalyn Akerman and Anabel Moritz trying to wheedle a color scheme and a theme and an atmosphere from one of them so that she could try and figure out what exactly _decorating the ballroom _consisted of.

The first thing she did every single morning was survey the ballroom, as though something minor might have changed between one day and the next, and try and figure out how to balance elegance and tackiness - too much gold, too much silver, too many bright colors, all of the above.

She was going to make a terrible queen, she realized, and that made Kelley just that little bit more desperate to ensure absolutely everything was perfect.

* * *

"You made these?"

He ducked his head, looking modest for the very first time since she had met him first. He did not smile.

"Yeah. I did. You like them?"

_She_ smiled, though, and he watched her.

"It's amazing."

"I know," he said, and then he did smile. "I know I am."

* * *

Rosalyn Akerman was not, by nature, the competitive sort.

But the Selection had brought something out in her that she wasn't entirely sure she liked.

"Purple tulips," she said to the maid, and tried to keep any hint of blame from her voice even though she was just about ready to pull all of her hair out. "We need dark purple tulips, okay?"

Rosalyn had never known about quite how much meaning went to each and every choice of flowers in the bouquets that littered the room. Every flower and every colour and every combination meant something else, something new, and she had to be careful, careful, careful not to accidentally imply something that she didn't mean to.

She had been saved from a massive faux pas by one of the maids only a few minutes after receiving her task, when she had been informed that marigolds were probably not the best choice for a winter dance meant to charm the prince.

"Pain and grief," the maid, Islana, had said in an authoritative tone. "You really want a load of flowers symbolising pain and grief at this thing?"

"Probably... not?"

Islana had shook her head, and while Rosalyn doubted that the maid had any kind of influence over anything in the castle, the next day there had been a short section of their daily etiquette class dedicated to the meaning of various common flowers and who they should be given to and when.

It was more complicated than any language Rosalyn had ever thought about learning.

"Dark purple tulips," she repeated to herself, and then turned to look at the long lines of vases that had been arranged at one wall, each with a unique bouquet of flowers tailored to the seating plan - for example, the vase for the royal family's table was arranged with angrec and hibiscus and viscaria in the colors of royal purple and America's trademark sky blue and Julien's favorite color, a pale red.

They didn't look awful, Rosalyn was relieved to see.

In fact, they looked kind of professional.

She had finished just in time, too - she had been irritated upon receiving her task, because something like flowers had to be down at the last minute, lest the flowers wither and die in the few days between arrangement and the dance itself. Thankfully, with the dance scheduled for the next day, the flowers would look just as good tomorrow.

After a long moment of consideration, Rosalyn leaned forward and carefully added a red chrysanthemum to the bouquet for Julien's table.

_I love you._

Of course, not everyone spoke the language of flowers. She was kind of glad for that - that she could tell someone how she felt without their even realising it.

She tucked a white gardenia behind her ear and glanced at herself briefly in the mirror.

_Joy, sweet love, good luck._

She would need it.

* * *

It was the twelfth room that Islana searched through in which she found it.

A note, hidden in the pocket of one of the nicest dresses, as though it were nothing she should hide. The girl had been careless to hide the note in such a way. Careless, and it could cost the girl her very life.

Carefully folded, scrawled on in neat, slanting penmanship.

The penmanship of a Two.

The penmanship of a girl in love.

"Oh, _Katherin_," Islana murmured quietly.

* * *

_**Remaining Selected - 16:**_

Charlotte Cohen

Evangeline Jones-Fitzwilliams

Eden Lamarie

Katherin Matthews

Eilinora Winslow

Jesse Wren

Clementine Georges

Lani Watson

East Smith

Adalyn Larson

Clio Nightingale

Anabel Moritz

Trinidad Mavuto

Kelley Winston

Maya Hartwick

Rosalyn Akerman

* * *

**Next chapter: _The dance; jealousy; a new love interest for one of the girls; the reveal of Demetrius' mystery girl; a family visit; and a second round of eliminations! Your votes have been taken into consideration, so thank you all!_**


	15. Chapter 15

**I think this is the longest chapter I have written so far, which I hope makes up for the huge delay between this one and the last one!  
**

**A note on the usage Italian in this chapter: I am nowhere near fluency, and my Italian, what little I have, is very rusty. Therefore, there are many problems with the Italian conjugation and syntax in this chapter - stilted wording and random switches between formal and informal. If any Italian-speaking readers would care to correct me, please do, and please forgive me for butchering your beautiful language. **

**Also - this chapter, I am afraid, lacks the promised family visit from the preview of what to expect I included last chapter. Why? Well, simply put, I hit 10k words and still had more to say, so some bits were cut - including a visit from a family member! This segment may be included in a future chapter.**

**Let's be fair - this chapter is really quite long by my standards， so rambling in the reviews is not only permitted but encouraged! You know the drill by now - thoughts, theories, complaints - and a mystery is answered in this chapter, so...!**

* * *

Islana had told him that she was sure a hundred times, but that didn't stop him affirming it once more.

"You're absolutely certain about this?"

"Absolutely," she said.

She watched as he read the note again - he still read in the same way, she was a little surprised to see, tracing his index finger above the words slower than he actually read, his eyes darting back and forth the get the gist of the message before he went back over it again, slowly, to read every word and savour it.

Islana had been used as a courier for love notes to Julien before.

"You know what this means," he said, his voice low, leaning in close to Islana, that facade of intimacy and friendship present once more. "If it's true."

"I do."

If it was true... it meant treason. It meant execution. It meant a death, and a slow one at that, and more than anything Julien didn't want it to be true.

But not even the future king could change the facts.

It wasn't as though he were treating this frivolously - she could see in his eyes and in the lines of tension along his body just how goddamn difficut this was for him, and she pitied him for his power and she pitied him for his burdens and she pitied him for having the brother and the decisioms that he did.

"Sir," Islana said, and regretted it almost at once, because he turned those sharp, soul-piercing eyes on her ans she felt the sudden need to tell him everything. She reeled in that need, reined in the urge, and just said, simply, "Don't do anything she would regret."

It had the intended reaction - Julien's face went very hard, as though he had seen something distasteful, and he looked at her as though she had just slit his throat and gutted him.

"I'm just saying," Islana said, and, after dropping down into a perfect curtsy, turned on her heel. "Goodbye, your majesty."

"Goodbye, Miss Loss."

* * *

The morning of the winter festival ball, the Selected girls were greeted with the pleasant surprises of individuals bouquets arranged at their places in the dining room when they came in for breakfast.

Lani's own bouquet was made up of mauve carnations and lilac china aster and pale cream elderflowers shaped like tiny stars. A tiny red ribbon bound the flowers together, attached to which was a card - after a moment, Lani realised that the card denoted the meaning of the flowers, the symbolism inherent therein.

_Dreams, Loyal Love, Compassion._

Lani couldn't help but smile as she tested the scent of the bouquet and let the flowers rest against her face for a moment before she looked around herself - all of the other fifteen Selected were busy looking at their own bundles of flowers and whispering what meanings had been attached to each and flicking brief, grateful glances up to the top of the room, where the royal family dined.

Lani looked again at the flowers, and at the card. What was it supposed to mean? she wondered. Dreams and loyal love and compassion - traits that she had, or that the prince associated with her?

Whatever it was, she was grateful.

She looked around - nearly everyone else seemed happy with their gift, but for her two closest dining neighbours, the Eight and the war-hero.

East was looking down at her own bouquet very deliberately, and so Lani did too. Where everyone else had delicate, beautiful flowers tied together with silken ribbons, each with a card explaining the meaning, East's gift looked decidedly less elegant. Lani recognised a most of the plants - a long, slender branch of whistling thorn with wicked sharp needle-points that stabbed into East as she picked them up; a few white rainflowers, which Lani remembered as symbolizing the necessity of atonement; a branch of an arbutus bush, the berries blood-red and glistening; an uneven bunch of ragweed, the kind you saw growing on the edges of the road in Dakota; and pale, yellowing hydrangeas in the centre,tied to the rest with a pale red ribbon.

"Oh, East," Lani began but East shook her head, looked up and smiled.

"I don't mind. They're just flowers, Watson. Sit down and don't make a fuss."

Lani did so, sinking down to sit at the same time East did, and noted that her companion could not help but glance up towards the table where the whole royal family were eating together for once. Lani focused on the prince, but Julien seemed more concerned with watching the Selected's reactions to the flowers, although never once did his eyes stray towards East and Lani.

"They probably have some hidden meaning," Lani said. "Like a code. Whistling thorns mean..."

"It's cruel," Charlotte interrupted. Her own bouquet lay untouched on the table - Lani could just about make out some of the looping script. The other girl had been given peach blossoms and dark purple morning glory and delicate pink starflowers and daffodils yellow enough to brighten the entire room. The card referenced generosity, courage, and new beginnings, but Charlotte seemed as though she honestly could not have cared less. "It's just mocking East, and it's unfair. I can't believe Julien would give her something like that."

Neither could Lani. She was certain there had to be something else afoot here.

East smiled. "Like I said," she repeated calmly. "They're just flowers." But Lani saw that she wrapped the stalks in a damp napkin to prevent the thorns sticking into her and put them on her lap for the duration of the breakfast, and even when the meal was over, Lani saw East bring the branches and thorns with her to her room as the girls dispersed to get ready for the ball.

The necessity of atonement. What did someone in the palace think East needed to atone for?

The Eight was fighting a losing battle just to stay in the Selection a little longer, Lani realised and that shouldn't have made Lani feel better, but it did.

* * *

Anabel Moritz was rapidly following in Jasmine White's footsteps of stabbing herself in the finger with a sewing needle at the most inopportune of moments. It happened now – the safety pin with which she had been attempting to secure the collar of her dress skewed off course with no warning and she made a tiny little cry of disappointment as a few drops of blood spilled onto the cream fabric.

"Be _careful_, Rosalyn!"

In fairness, the other girl looked shamefaced. "Sorry," she said, but continued on her way, dodging a stressed-looking Eilinora whose hair had begun to smell suspicously but who insisted on continuing to toast her hair with the curling irons.

Anabel wasn't entirely sure where all of these other girls had come from, or why they had chosen to bless her room specifically with their presence, and on top of all of that, she still wasn't sure whether she appreciated the company or not. It was hectic – four girls, Anabel and Rosalyn and Eilinora and Katherin, all struggling to get ready for the ball without betraying to the others just how damn nervous they all were.

Anabel looked back to her dress. The tiny droplets of blood were subtle, but decidedly visible and she knew that if she danced with the prince that night (well, she could dream), he would certainly notice.

"Rosalyn?" Anabel hated it, but the fact was that Rosalyn had originated as the lowest caste of any of the girls present, so if anyone knew any cleaning tips, it would be the Five. "Blood?"

Rosalyn turned, looking a little bit freaked out, but she looked relieved when she saw that it was only a few drops. "If we're quick, we can probably wash it out with cold water and have it dry before the dance."

Anabel raised her eyebrows. "I already have my hair done!"

Eilinora, still crisping her hair, glanced over her shoulder. "We probably don't have enough time to redo it."

Anabel touched her hair cautiously. Eilinora had done such a wonderful job on her hair, that it seemed like a desecration of some kind of art form to ruin it by removing the dress. The back section of her hair had been drawn up into a carefully wound braid, curled into a bun, and curled the tiny feathery pieces of hair at the front into perfect little ringlets. It was one of the most lovely hairstyles she had ever worn.

Rosalyn looked a little frustrated. "Okay. So we can't take off the dress. Is that one of those detachable collar things?"

"If I got my hands on it, it probably would be," Eilinora said helpfully, and despite her stress, Anabel laughed.

Katherin solved the problem in that silent, sweet way of hers by coming out of the bathroom with a barely-damp cloth soaked in something that smelled like paraffin. Anabel looked at it suspciously, but she trusted Katherin maybe a bit more than she should have. It could have been anything on that cloth – anything to sabotage her or her dress – but Anabel didn't think that was really Katherin's style, so she shrugged and accepted the cloth and thanked her and, while she cautiously dabbed at the blood, looked at Katherin herself.

"Katherin," Anabel said with a smile. "You look absolutely beautiful."

And she was. Katherin was not as beautiful as a model like Eilinora or Eden, nor as striking as a girl like Rosalyn or Charlotte. She was not ugly, of course she was not, but she was as plain as it was possible to be in the Selection.

Not tonight. Tonight, Katherin's kind, open face had been contoured into something wonderful, her bright blue eyes emphasised with Rosalyn's subtle hand at make-up, her lips as red as blood. Her curly blonde hair had been teased into gentle waves settled over her shoulders so that it framed her face, and the long, simple red gown she wore made her eyes even brighter, her lips even redder. Her high heels brought her to maybe five foot seven – just tall enough to be tall, Anabel thought.

Anabel's hands fluttered at her dress. Next to Katherin, what was the point of even trying?

"You look absolutely amazing," Rosalyn echoed.

Katherin looked a little shy, but she smiled and tugged at her dress a little. "You think so?"

"The prince won't be able to keep his eyes off you," Rosalyn continued, and maybe there was a hint of bitterness in her voice, but if there was, she buried it deep.

Eilinora looked a little surprised at this reaction, and glanced at her friend, so that Anabel was nearly certain she was the only one who saw the look on Katherin's face. It was something between coyness and surprise, as though it wasn't the prince she was interested in attracting the attention of.

A part of Anabel hoped so.

That way, Anabel might be in with a chance.

* * *

Jesse wasn't used to having female friends, or any friends, really, so it came became quite a surprise when she opened her door a few hours before the dance was due to begin to find a veritable rogue's gallery of Selected girls – a rip-jeaned East Smith wearing a thick sweater, a quiet, thoughtful Charlotte carrying a bag of dresses, and a smiling Clementine with her hair now snow-white.

"We're getting ready in your room," Clementine said simply, and moved past Jesse to peer at herself in the mirror.

"Sorry," Charlotte said, and Jesse just shrugged and gestured that they should enter.

East looked a little suspicious, but she just waved to Jesse. "I still have to find a dress," she said, and ignored the incredulous looks Charlotte and Clementine gave her. "I'll meet up with you guys at the ball."

Jesse nodded. "Wish me luck," she said dramatically, and shut the door.

* * *

For the first time since the beginning of the Selection, Katherin felt like a princess.

And what irony it all was, Katherin thought, because tonight was the night that she gave up on the idea of becoming a princess at all.

She didn't care about the Selection anymore.

She didn't.

She, along with Rosalyn, Eilinora and Anabel, descended the stairs together – a little late, perhaps, but fashionably so. Of the four, Katherin knew that she was the most nervous, although she was the only one not to show it.

She alone knew the reason for her calm. It was because she knew she looked beautiful, and because she knew she would see him there, and because she knew that tonight would be perfect.

"Shall we?" Eilinora said from beside Katherin and, leaning over, she linked arms with the girls on either side of her. The older girl's dress was floor-length and dynamic, tight at the jewel-encrusted bodice and then flowing at the skirt so that she cut a dramatic figure against the light pouring in the window at the top of the stairs – Eilinora always looked as perfect and poised as a model ought to, and tonight was no exception. Next to her, Anabel had gone for a cuter image than the others, with a rose-encrusted cream dress that came to just above her knee and a pair of matching high heels that made her just that hint taller. Rosalyn wore a dress as pink as the flower from which she had been named all those years ago, a rosy ball gown with a tight corset that reached the ground and rustled as she walked.

Katherin allowed the girls to descend the stairs first, pausing for the briefest moment, one hand resting on the staircase railing as she looked out over the foyer – Kelley had surpassed herself.

Delicate fairy lights seemed to hang on the air itself, staining the ceiling all sorts of colours as people passed beneath them, the guards and the maids all permitted for the first time in years to abandon their duties and dress themselves up in what little finery they had. Katherin had to supress a hint of jealousy as one of the smaller maids, a short girl with long chestnut hair, leaned up to put her scarred hand on the cheek of a handsome soldier who put his hands on her waist and drew her closer.

They looked happy, Katherin thought. The kind of couple who didn't keep each other a secret from anyone else, or who didn't lay awake at night wondering whether one was lying to the other.

Maybe once upon a time, Katherin would have looked at the couple and felt nothing but jealousy and hope for the future.

Now, though – well, she had an even more handsome man waiting for her in the ballroom.

Katherin smiled, a sweet smile that spoke of the secret she had held to herself for so long, and she carefully began to descend the steps, holding the skirt of her dress up just enough that she wouldn't fall down the marble steps and embarrass herself in front of everyone.

She knew that tonight would be perfect, but there was no point in taking risks, was there?

* * *

"Demetrius."

Julien had never thought that he would be in this situation again, saying these words again, to his brother. His brother, who had protected him against every rebel raid, every enemy attack, every misfortune of the world. His brother, who treated him without bitterness even as he prepared for the throne that was not rightfully his. His brother, who was his only ally in this Selection and, Julien suspected, his only friend.

His brother, who had never let Julien fall in love with a girl without trying to steal her first.

His brother, who was the reason Angrec was dead.

Demetrius, who had loved her too.

Demetrius looked up, his hands stilling on his tie, and his eyes met Julien's in the mirror. For a moment, it had looked as though he intended to say something light-hearted, something to alleviate the crown prince's nerves before the dance, but when he saw his brother's face, the sentiment died on his lips and he turned. Julien could pinpoint the exact moment Demetrius' eyes fell on the letter in Julien's hand – it was the same moment he stopped smiling, the same moment he looked at Julien with something between fear and arrogance.

Julien threw Katherin's note onto Demetrius' bed, but his brother did not move.

"How many of them?"

Demetrius let out his breath. "One."

Julien could feel his voice twisting, becoming something ugly. "You're lying."

"Julien –"

"How _many_?"

Demetrius looked down, the first and only indication that he knew what kind of trouble he had caused. But then, someone like Demetrius was used to causing trouble. "It won't help."

Julien stared at him.

"It won't help you," Demetrius said, and he finished straightening his tie. "To know how many. This isn't about the girls. This is about the girl. The only one who ever mattered to you."

"Because no girl had ever mattered to you."

Demetrius paused, and he looked at Julien, and Julien saw again that awful look on his brother's face, the one that he had only ever seen fleetingly, the one that his brother went to pains to hide.

"Exactly."

"Break it off with them," Julien said. "All of them. And don't tell me who. This girl, this Katherin, she's unlucky. Because I'll have to make an example of her. And I don't want to do so again. So, Demetrius, if you care even the slightest bit about any of those girls, you'll stop seeing them. You'll tell them that you hate them. Because I won't be able to go easy on them next time."

Demetrius picked up his jacket. He did not look sorry.

He never had.

And he looked better than Julien ever would - he knew just the right length to leave the tie so that he looked careless, calculated just how askew his shirt could be before it slipped past rogueish and went into messy. There would be broken hearts tonight.

"Do me a favour in return, then," he said, and walked towards the door. "Get rid of the Eight."

Julien watched him go, and remembered the last time they had had this conversation, and he hated his brother for the first time in years.

* * *

_"I wasn't expecting you to be here so early."_

_"You're not exactly disappointed that I am, though, right?" Katherin fought to keep the defensive, suspicious_ _edge from her voice, tried to turn it into something teasing. "You're not expecting another girl to turn up_ _here, I suppose?"_

_"Of course not."_

_She tried to keep_ the _jealousy from her voice and her face, but it was an impossible fight._

_"You're an awful liar."_

_"I never pretended otherwise."_

_Demetrius smiled._

_He always smiled._

_Katherin had never_ _seen him otherwise._

_He was beautiful when he smiled._

_She wished he trusted her enough not to smile._

* * *

"Lani." Eden's smile was radiant, beautiful. She held out a hand and drew her friend closer to her, turning to direct her smile at the two men who accompanied her. For the briefest moment, her eyes scanned the room as though she hoped that someone was watching, as though she were putting on an act for someone else's benefit. "Gentlemen, your Highness, this is the girl I was talking to you about. May I introduce Lani Watson, Selected of Dakota?" She couldn't help herself - she reached up and straightened the carnation in Lani's hair with a quick, flicking gesture, before she turned back to the conversation.

Lani smiled a little as the taller man extended a hand, a slight, polite smile cracking across his grave, serious face. "It is wonderful to meet you," he said, his voice heavily accented with the lilt that Lani had missed so very very much ever since her mother's death. She had to hide the look of surprise on her face – yes, Eden had told Lani that she had invited the Italian prince and ambassador to the dance, but Lani had not considered that she would be hearing her mother's accent from a stranger's lips, and it was one of the most unnerving sensations she had ever experienced.

She hated that she was so glad her father was not around to see her struggle in her own native language like this.

Nonetheless, she smiled politely, shook, and turned to the other man.

It was obvious that this was the prince. He carried himself like a prince – not like cautious Julien or carefree Demetrius, but with a kind of gravitas that did not do anything to blunt his sharp smile or dull his bright eyes. He had olive skin and night-black hair, and he smiled a little when he met Lani's eye.

"_Sei bellissima_," he said simply and, taking Lani's hand, he kissed it with that kind of a smile that reminded her a little of Queen America – beguiling and open, unsecretive.

Lani, who spent most of her time with Eden, Clementine and her occasional Eight shadow, had forgotten what that kind of smile looked like.

She had to smile. "_Grazie_," she said, the language of her mother feeling unfamiliar on her lips – she hated herself for letting that part of her wither inside of her, so she had to fight to remember the words with which her mother had raised her. "_E 'meraviglioso incontrarti_," she added, and felt a little ashamed that her Italian was of the southern dialect rather than the sophisticated, posh form the prince used.

He seemed happy though. "_E lei_," he said, and, gesturing to the table from which he and the ambassador had just risen, raised his eyebrow just a bit. "_Lei piacerebbe cenare con noi_?"

"_Incantato_," Lani said with a smile, ignoring the teasing look Eden threw her – let the dirty-minded girl think what she pleased. Lani was glad to have some prince pay attention to her, and this man seemed like the type of person she could get along with. They had learnt most of the names of various leaders in Klara's classes, and she recognised this man as the younger prince, Constantino.

"Actually," Eden said suddenly, tilting her head slightly. Lani looked at her friend in confusion, and then she heard it - the sweet singing of a violin. "I'm afraid the Illean tradition is to dance at a ball, your Highness. Mr Ambassador, would you care to join me?"

She extended an arm and the older man took it, and as they left, Constantino looked at Lani and offered his arm with a smile. "We shall?"

His English was even worse than her rusty, half-forgotten Italian, and that made her feel better even more than the smile he gave her.

"We shall," she said, and they went to dance.

* * *

"Dance with me."

Julien's tone brooked no disagreement, so Katherin rose and took his hand, because why not? Demetrius hadn't so much as looked at her since she walked into the ballroom, so busy was he flirting with one of the Italian prince's entourage, a tall slender dark-haired woman with sultry eyes and a revealing dress.

Katherin wasn't the romantic sort, but the pain in her chest reminded her of why people called it a broken heart.

"Your Majesty –"

"I want you out of the palace by tomorrow," he said, and Katherin felt something in her heart break again.

"Julien – I don't –"

"Don't cry," he said, although Katherin had not even come close, which made her think that he was working from some imagining of how this conversation would go, that he was saying what he knew needed to be said. "I know about you and my brother."

She stilled. They stopped moving, and she raised her eyes to meet his, other couples swirling about them in a forestry of silk and taffeta and colour.

"Your….? Julien, I –"

"Be grateful," he said. "If the king knew about this – it's treason, Katherin."

She couldn't think. Her bones had gone cold. Her mind was numb. Her heart was heavy.

Treason? It was love.

Demetrius looked up from his flirtation, and his gaze met Katherin's from over Julien's shoulder.

She looked at him, stricken.

He smiled and looked away again.

Now Katherin felt like maybe she was about to cry.

"I could have you beheaded," Julien said. "For treason."

"But you won't."

"I won't."

"Why?"

"Smarter girls than you have been fooled by him."

The song ended.

Julien stepped away, bowed, walked back towards the edge of the dancefloor.

Katherin began to cry.

* * *

"Lady Jesse?"

Jesse looked up with the kind of deferential look that told Charlotte she expected to see the prince or the king or someone else official to whom she owed fealty, so it was even more amusing to Charlotte when she saw how Jesse's expression changed upon noticing that the speaker was a guard from the front gate dressed in an ill-fitted suit, looking nervous and uncomfortable. His face was badly scarred – it had been cut straight down the middle, ending only a few inches below his eye. Charlotte knew a million dollar wound when she saw one – a few centimetres longer and the man would have lost his entire damn eye.

Jesse arched an eyebrow. "I won't be any use to you," she said. "I'm in a dress and high heels. I don't even have my knife with me."

Charlotte nearly laughed at the way the soldier looked even more nervous at the pronouncement that Jesse was the type of girl who usually carried a knife with her.

"I intended to ask you to dance," the guard said.

Jesse's eyebrows disappeared into her hairline.

"Now why would you want to do that?"

Charlotte had to admit, the girl could look scary when she wanted to. Her dress was simple, and her hair had grown a little longer since the start of the Selection, so that it brushed her shoulders in that awkward kind of a style when a shaven head has grown sufficiently to be long, but not sufficiently to be significantly styled. It was considered a mark of dishonour in the military – a sign that a soldier had been on leave for so long that he or she had the disadvantage in a fight, because the enemy could easily grab their hair.

This guard didn't seem to think that Jesse looked dishonourable, or indeed that that she looked awkward.

"You saved my life, Lady," he said finally. "In the raid. One of the rebels nearly took my eye, and you pulled me out before they could."

"I saved a lot of people that day," Jesse said. Anyone else would have sounded arrogant.

The soldier looked crestfallen.

Jesse stood up. "It's soldier," she said. "Soldier Wren, or just Jesse. None of this lady bullshit. And I hope you know how to dance, because I don't."

Charlotte wished that she could ever have made someone look as happy as that soldier did right at that moment.

"I think I can figure it out," he said, and Jesse smiled and took his hand, and for the rest of the night she had no shortage of requests to dance, because it seemed to Charlotte that her friend had saved damn near every guard in the household, every soldier in the army, and there were queues to dance with Soldier Wren for the duration of the ball.

* * *

_"I didn't know his most royal of highnesses had a brother."_

_A slight smile from Demetrius at this greeting from the beautiful girl - almost amused, almost predatory._

_"What makes you think I'm his brother?"_

_"Lucky guess."_

_He considers the girl - Eden Lamarie, Two, from Angeles. She's beautiful, she's poised, and she knows it._

_"Are you lost?"_

_"I'm looking."_

_"Looking for what?"_

_"Haven't decided yet. I'll know it __when I find it."_

_"Well, you found me."_

_Her first smile is coy - it turns up at the edges, gives her eyes a considering, seductive look and Demetrius can't help but watch her._

_"I guess I did."_

* * *

Charlotte was a soldier. She had the keen eyes of a soldier.

It not escape her notice, as he danced with Evangeline and Eilinora and Adalyn, and laughed with Jesse and Maya, and shared drinks with Lani and Clementine and the Italian prince, and talked with Anabel and Kelley and Rosalyn, that she was the only Selected girl with whom Demetrius had yet to dance.

Another girl might have been jealous.

Charlotte was _angry_.

* * *

Adalyn was the first of the Selected girls that Julien danced with simply because he wanted to dance with her - and unlike Katherin, he did not intend to make this one cry.

But Julien had never been that good with girls, so it was still a significant possibility that he might make this girl cry anyway.

Adalyn looked as beautiful as it was possible to be, her pale silver dress aglow beneath the lights, and she was sitting with a shy Evangeline, trying to persuade the other girl to come dancing with her.

"I think you have someone else to go dancing with," Evangeline said, and gestured to Prince Julien as he approached.

Julien smiled and extended a hand. The two girls were sitting at the edge of the dance floor, sharing a drink, as people danced in the centre of the room in front of them. The stage upon which the band was settled took up maybe fifty square feet at the top of the ballroom, and the entire place was alight with lanterns and fairy lights. Kelley had gone for a very subdued appearance for the entire place - very wintery, Adalyn thought, the kind of atmosphere that made the castle feel far smaller and more intimate than it actually was, and the flickering of the candles and the warm feeling of the ballroom made Adalyn feel that bit less homesick.

That same light flickered over Julien's features now, creating interesting shadows across his high cheekbones amd his strong jaw. "The lady is correct," Julien said, and he smiled. "Would you like to dance, Lady Adalyn?"

Adalyn smiled. "I'd be delighted," she said and, taking his hand, she rose carefully, cautious that she wouldn't trip over the voluminous skirts of her dress. Evangeline raised her glass as though she were toasting the two, and she looked happily unjealous as Julien guided Adalyn out to the centre of the dance floor. The other dancers parted before him like the tide retreating, and as they met the middle of the floor, Julien turned to face Adalyn.

Adalyn had never felt as nervous as now, as Julien put a hand gently on her waist, and she put hers on his shoulder, and the song began.

It was a sweet song, soft and gentle, one of the slowest of the night, which Adalyn was very grateful for, as despite Klara's dance lessons she still could not waltz without falling over herself and pulling her dance partner with her. This dance was just a few steps, more swaying that anything else, and after the first few tense, awful moments of bated breath and stiff movements, Julien looked at her, and he smiled, and said, "You look beautiful, Adalyn," and then she couldn't feel nervous anymore, because that gaze of his sliced right through whatever nerve controlled her anxiety, and suddenly she was calm.

"I never realized how painful beauty could be," she said, and Julien's smile spread, as though he hadn't been expecting her to be humorous.

"I don't envy you. All of you girls must have gone through torture to look as good as you do."

"Was it worth it?"

"I certainly think so."

The tempo lifted for a brief second, and he spun her without warning and Adalyn had to laugh, and he caught her again before she could trip over herself and both of them were smiling. Beside them, the master of the hunt, Demetrius, had stolen Jesse away from her new guardsman partner and the two soldiers were spinning around the dance floor as though the song was as fast as they came.

"He's far too drunk to be moving that fast," Julien remarked mildly, and Adalyn smiled.

"Jesse will keep him upright by sheer force of will."

"She seems tough as nails."

"She is." Adalyn hesitated, but for the first time that she had known him, Julien seemed relaxed, so she decided to go for it. "She'd make a terrifying queen." She kept her tone light.

Julien looked thoughtful, but his smile did not slip or fade, so Adalyn decided to go for honesty again - something had been nagging at her for the entirety of the Selection, so what was the better time to ask?

"Did you see my speech?"

The violinist did a roll and every dancer made a quick turn - Julien and Adalyn swapped hands and tried to look as though they knew what they were doing. What kind of music had Lani arranged? Whatever it was, it was haunting.

"Your speech?" He looked puzzled.

"The day I left my province." It was tough to speak, with the exertion of dancing and the noise of the music and shoes on the wooden floor and the talk on the side of the floor. Julien and Adalyn turned abrubtly to avoid Lani and the Italian prince, and dodged Clementine, who was dancing exuberantly with one of the grooms from the stables. "I made a speech in front of the crowd. You really didn't see it?"

"I really didn't."

Adalyn decided to be glad. All of that time of wondering whether she had made a fool of herself, or whether the prince had seen it, or what he thought, and it meant nothing because he hadn't seen it and that was fine.

"I talked about la vie en rose," she said, and saw Julien's look of confusion as to why on earth she was talking about this. "Life through rose-coloured spectacles. And I just realised that you really don't see things that way."

"Do you think I should?"

From his brother, it would have been sarcastic. From Julien, it was genuine and curious.

"You should think of yourself. Don't think I didn't notice - the second I pointed out that Jesse would be a good queen, you looked at her with new eyes, and you shouldn't. You shouldn't do that to yourself. Don't marry for the kingdom, marry for yourself. Because I know everyone will be telling you this, and you've probably heard it a hundred times, but you deserve to be happy, Julien. And I don't think you would be happy with a queen for a wife, rather than your wife as queen. Does that make sense? You've spent so long being Julien the prince charming, that maybe you should think of the real you for once. You should choose the girl that Julien the human being likes, not the girl that Julien the heir thinks is politically advantageous."

"Sounds pretty selfish."

"Sometimes selfish isn't all bad."

"No," Julien said thoughtfully. He looked at her with something new in his eyes - respect, maybe. "Maybe it isn't."

"I'm sorry. I've overstepped boundaries, haven't I?"

"Don't be ridiculous." Julien smiled. "I think that maybe I could do with some more of _la vie en rose_ in my life."

The song drew to its final, inevitable conclusion, and Julien seemed almost reluctant to stop dancing. He and Adalyn bowed to one another, an antiquated gesture that Adalyn still found odd, and Julien accompanied her from the dance floor, still looking thoughtful.

As Adalyn retook her seat, wondering if she had said the right things, Julien offered his hand to Evangeline. "I've been neglecting you, I'm afraid. Dance?"

"Gladly," Evangeline said, and allowed Julien to pull her from the chair. Julien gave Adalyn a smile and a wink, and then Evangeline put her arms around his neck and they disappeared into the crowds again.

* * *

"_Dimmi, Lani_." They were sitting at one of the snowy-white tables, a vase of blue roses in front of them and a drink apiece, and Lani was a little surprised to hear Constantino speak after such a long, comfortable silenc_e. "Sei caduto in amore con il principe di Illea?_"

Lani laughed a little, unsure of what to say. Had she fallen in love with the prince? She didn't think so, no. It was difficult to fall in love with someone you had barely ever spoken to.

She shook her head.

"_Se lei ho dato la scelta_, _volete lasciare la Selezione_?"

Leave the Selection? She couldn't imagine it, not really. When she thought of leaving the Selection, she thought of returning to her family after an elimination, upset but content that she had done her best.

She did not think the prince was talking about this kind of departure.

"Tonight," he said slowly, in that hesitant English of his. "You have shown a great heart. You would make a wonderful queen someday. Who cares what country?"

Lani almost laughed. "We've known each other for one night."

"And in that time, I daresay we have spoken together more than you and his royal Illean highness have in two months. Yet if you succeed, you will have to marry him." Constantino's smile and tone were a little more teasing than his words suggested - Lani liked him, and he liked her, but she could sense that he was just using this line of questioning as a springboard from which to discuss the Selection itself - the one subject they had yet to cover in their several-hours-long conversation of politics and personal life and pasts. At this point, Lani almost felt like she knew this other prince. Hell, they had already switched in Italian from formal to informal second person pronouns - which was a far bigger deal than it seemed in English.

"You're right there," Lani admitted, and had to switch to Italian to explain the next bit. "But the Selection is about more than love and marriage, it's about Illea. Joining together the provinces, the castes, the people so that they know they are one nation united."

"I'm glad we have no such thing in Italy. It seems entirely too much pressure to put on one young man."

Lani laughed. "Poor Julien. Yes, the parameters for him are strict, but the rules on the girls are even stricter. For example, girls are not permitted to..." And here her grasp on Italian failed her, because the variety of language she had used with her mother had not typically involved discussion of sexual situations or romantic relationships. "To be loving with another," she said finally, and hoped he understood. "They cannot... spend time with someone other than the prince."

"Ah," he said, and she knew he understood. And she hoped that it was not just her imagination that he looked a little disappointed at this new information. "You have been spending time with me, though."

"I have," Lani said with a smile. "And I've enjoyed every minute of it."

"And if you were not in the Selection," he said. "If you were to leave it, would you... like to spend more time with me?"

Constantino had the kind of tone that made Lani feel under no pressure to answer the way he wanted to. There was no pressure there - he asked questions and she answered them and vice versa. Which meant that she tried to be honest as much as possible.

Lani hesitated. She honestly had to stop and think about that. If she was not in the Selection, she thought there was nothing she would like more in the world.

But she was in the Selection. Like it or not. The Selection was paying for her little sisters, Kalea and Lahela, to attend school while Lani was not working. Prince Julien had danced and spent time with her for the first time in the entire competition. And she sometimes suspected that she was Clementine's only friend in the competition, as well as Eden's only ally. She couldn't just throw the other girls to the wolves by abandoning them, leaving the Selection of her own volition.

"If," she said, stressing it as much as a one-syllable word could be stretched - in Italian, _se_. "If I were not in the Selection, I would love to. And maybe, after the Selection, if you still want to be friends, then yes."

Constantino understood, and he raised a glass in her direction. "You are a bad influence on me, Lady Lani," he said with a smile. "For it is an awful thing that I should wish you such misfortune in your Selection."

Lani laughed and raised her glass and echoed his toast.

"To misfortune."

* * *

After only a little while of searching, Julien found Trinidad and Clio.

They looked beautiful, but then all of the girls did.

Trinidad, he knew, was not exactly an empathetic or compassionate person, but she was perceptive and just and fair. She would make a wonderful, clever, ambitious queen.

But he didn't think he could ever love her.

Clio was bright and warm and funny, and she was the kind of girl who brought sunshine to your life - the kind of girl who could darken your world if you took so much as a wrong step. She would make a wonderful, loving, faithful wife.

But he didn't think he could ever love her.

To his gratitude, neither cried as he gave them the news.

* * *

After about two hours of dancing and, in Charlotte and East's case, watching other people dance, the songs ended and the dance floor was empty and the banquet was served.

East, Charlotte observed, was a dirty filthy liar, because there was no way that something like this could possibly have been put together with the kind of laid-back attitude East had seemed to have.

Elaborately plated salads with swirling matrices of sauces and dressings surrounding them in a cloud of colour next to a long line of riot-coloured fiery shrimp cocktails, opposite slices of freshly warm brown bread upon which perfectly symmetrical strawberry slices had been laid with great care. Vases of perfectly formed iced flowers in every colour of the rainbow and spicy, peppery cheese straws had been set on each table with brie tartlets decorating each saucer, decorated with grape relish and pepper sauce. A long platter of sushi, perfectly sliced maguro and ebi, orange and purple and golden slices of fish, was lain opposite miniature caviar parfaits in delicate crystal glasses and skewered beef and apple and blue cheese and grapes.

And all of this was just the appetizers.

"East," Jesse said admiringly, and then seemed to lose the ability to speak as she tasted one of the flower-cut oranges and sat down immediately to eat another.

East just shrugged at this half-finished piece of praise. She had, as was rapidly becoming typical for her, seemed to have put little effort into her dress for the dance, although Charlotte was beginning to suspect that this careless persona was actually the image East had chosen for her portrayal.

If that was so, it was working wonders. East's dress was just that bit short, coming to mid-thigh, a dark burgundy sleeveless creation with a tight bodice and a high-waisted circle skirt that made her long legs look even longer, along with her black skyscraper heels. She was as tall as Demetrius, if not a little taller, her thick dark hair gathered up against her head and neck with a pair of silver chopsticks and dark kohl ringing her even darker eyes. She was a storm in motion, all smoky eyes and long limbs and dark hair.

Demetrius, Charlotte was irritated to see, couldn't keep his eyes off her.

For the next half hour, the place was nearly entirely silent as everyone began to eat.

The rest of the royal family were dining at the largest table near the front of the ballroom, but Julien was moving from table to table, first talking to the guards and maids, who looked absolutely delighted to have been invited to such an event. Then he moved to the table of the Italian dignitaries, where the woman Demetrius had been flirting with looked a little irritated that she had been dumped so quickly and unceremoniously, and shot him daggered looks from across the room.

Julien spent most of his time talking and laughing at the table at which Maya, Anabel, Rosalyn, Eilinora, Evangeline and Adalyn were dining together. He looked more relaxed than Charlotte had ever seen him, she realized with a hint of surprise.

Clementine was sitting at one of the maids' tables, deep in conversation with a dark haired girl with a long, brutal scar on her face, and Jesse had found herself sharing a table with the guards, listening more than she spoke, as was Jesse's typical behaviour. This meant, Charlotte was surprised to see, that Eden was the only girl to sit next to her as they watched East and Demetrius at the banquet table together - East was saying something disparaging, as was her wont, and for the first time, Demetrius' eyes did not skate over her in search of someone prettier.

Charlotte was surprised to see how jealous Eden looked. She hadn't even suspected the other girl had feelings for the handsome master of the hunt, but apparently even a model Two from glamorous Angeles was susceptible to his charms.

She had thought that Demetrius had danced with every girl, but now Charlotte realised that she had yet to see Eden in his company. So here the two of them were, lonely and irritated together.

East said something to Demetrius, her sly eyes creased at the corners as she hid a smile, and in response he plucked a large white flower from the nearest vase and gently tucked it behind her ear. He said something Charlotte could not hear, and in response East just turned on her heel and walked away without a reply, leaving Demetrius look a little surprised.

That was East's habit, though. Knock everyone off balance and leave them guessing no matter what.

Charlotte stabbed at her sushi with a ferocity that surprised even her. Eden gave her askance glance, but seemed to understand a little.

"Soldier Cohen."

She looked up, but even before she saw him, she knew who it would be.

"It's Lady," she said. "Lady Charlotte."

The corner of his mouth twitched. "Lady Charlotte," he began again. "Would you like to dance with me?"

Charlotte stared at her plate for a moment. To accept would just give him what he wanted - let him win, make her seem desperate, and she could see that he knew what kind of a battle she was waging in her mind.

What did she want?

"I thought you'd never ask," she replied, and ignored the angry, hurt, filthy look Eden gave her as she took Demetrius' hand in hers and rose from the table.

His hand was warmer than she had expected, not cool as it had been in the rose garden all those weeks ago. When he had kissed her. When she, Illea's war hero, had committed treason.

Despite these misgivings, her heart made that little jump as he settled a hand on her waist, just above her hip and drew her closer to him.

"I know what you're doing," she warned him, partly for her own benefit. "I don't like people playing games with me."

"Is that what you think I'm doing?"

"I know," she replied. "And I won't fall for it."

"Won't you?"

"I won't," she replied with such conviction she convinced herself in that own moment of the truth of what she was saying.

Demetrius smiled as though he couldn't help it. "That's an unusual change," he said.

"Pleasant or unpleasant?"

"Oh, pleasant. Very." And then for a moment they danced, just danced, just his hand warm on her waist and her hand unsteady on his shoulder and their breathing, quiet as it was.

It was so easy to see herself falling in love with him.

There were few other couples out on the floor - most people were still eating - but it was a slow, quiet dance nonetheless, barely moving, so that Charlotte came to suspect Demetrius wasn't all that interested in dancing after all. The song was slow and sweet and sorrowful, one of the few accompanied by vocals, which spoke of love young found and love long lost and she thought the entire thing was extremely depressing, to tell the truth.

"Charlotte," he began, and the use of her first name made her pay attention as he began, "I -"

And then, of course, the interruption.

Lani had, as everyone else had, done a wonderful job with the task she had been assigned, in this case, the playlist - one song melted seamlessly to another, so that Charlotte barely noticed the speed in tempo until someone tapped Demetrius on the shoulder and he turned to see Julien, a good few inches taller, standing to one side, just behind him.

"May I cut in?" Julien asked, raising an eyebrow, a trace of warning in his voice that Charlotte knew very well the reason for. Demetrius obviously did too, because he stepped away reluctantly.

"Of course. I've had my time." He gave Charlotte the ghost of a smile, and then, almost as though he was acting impulsively, he took the corsage from his suit and, taking Charlotte's hand in his, tied it carefully to her wrist. "Thank you for your time, Lady Charlotte," he said quietly, before he straightened and reverted to his usual, devil-may-care demeanour. "Now, if you'll excuse me, it's eleven o'clock and I am still, regretably, shamefully, sober. I'll see you later."

Charlotte wasn't sure whether this last sentence was targeted towards her or Julien, and didn't have time to find out, because by then the dancing couples were closing ranks around them and Demetrius was lost from sight.

* * *

Islana soon realized why she had kept her distance from such royal events for so long.

She could not dance to save her life.

In fact, her dancing seemed to endanger the lives of several others.

* * *

Eden was not the type of girl to swoon or wait to be rescued. She took her destiny into her own hands, shook it for being so stupid, and then threw it aside and chose her own path.

Which was why, after midnight came and went again and still the hours passed and still Demetrius was paying no heed to her, she got to her feet and went to find him rather than vice versa.

He was drinking, because of course he was. The dance was winding down - it was very nearly dawn, Eden suspected, and the room was emptying as people filtered away, to snatch a few hours sleep before the morning forced them to rise again.

She wasted no time. She asked him straight out.

"Do you want to dance with me?" she asked, and was irritated, because even with the way he had been treating her of late, she couldn't be help but be drawn to him. She had always been absolutely terrible at staying away from the forbidden fruit, and something told her that he had the same issue.

He endangered her mission of winning the competition, which was why it irritated her so much that she was jealous he had been staying away from her for so long.

He looked at her, and straightened from his half-reclined position against the counter.

"No," he said, and swirled his drink experimentally in his hand. "Actually, I'm glad you found me, because I am way too lazy to go looking for you. We - whatever we were - we're done. Okay?"

She stared at him.

That had been the most abrupt break-up she had ever experienced, and she had doled out a few heart-breakers in her time.

"What?" she said, her voice too weak to be angry. He was breaking up with her - whatever they had had - now and here?

The bastard.

"I'd like to keep my head on my shoulders, thanks. So, yeah." Demetrius smiled at her, that smug, wry smile he had first given her all those weeks ago when the Selection had first started, and took a drink. "We're done," he said, and turned back towards the bar as though she were not even present.

Eden had no idea what she was meant to feel.

She turned and she walked away and she did not look back because she knew that he would not either.

* * *

"You're not dancing, lady?"

"Neither are you, your highness."

"I'm shy. You have no such excuse."

That was Anabel's first conversation with the Princess Madrigal, and for the rest of the night, it was their last as they hovered at the edge of the dance floor in a comfortable silence, too shy to dance, and content to watch the others.

Anabel thought she vastly preferred the quiet Madrigal to the racuous Xandra, who was currently dancing with the master of the hunt and seemed to be having the time of her four year old life.

"I thought princesses had to know how to dance," she said to Madrigal.

"Princesses do what they want to do. You'll soon figure that out." Madrigal, it seemed, had inherited her mother's wry sense of humour.

"If I win."

"If you win."

* * *

She met Julien in one of the smaller hallways as he headed back towards his quarters for the evening. She was still angry and hurt and upset, and maybe that was what spurred her on, her need for some sort of revenge, some sort of retribution for Demetrius' callous treatment.

"Julien," she said, and for a moment when he turned he looked just like Denetrius - those eyes, that hair - and se thought that that was probably the reason she ended up kissing him, pressing into him as though any space between their bodies might prove fatal.

He was a stronger man than his brother, she realised, because it took him only a split second to gently push her away and look at her.

"Eden?"

"I'm sorry," she said, although she wasn't really. "I wasn't thinking."

That part was true.

"Did something happen?" he asked, and she couldn't bear to see that look of concern on his face, because concern was only a hair's breadth away from pity and she hated to be pitied.

In the dark hallway, pressed closer together than was strictly comfortable, she remembered now why she had gone along with her parents' plan to win the Selection before Demetrius had entered the picture. There were only very few people in the world whom she could not read like a book or manipulate like a puppet, and those people intimidated her because she was not in control, and Julien intimidated her a little bit now. Because of the knowledge she did't have, because of the advantage she didn't have, she was intrigued with Julien and who he was and why he was, even though she suspected she would not get an answer.

"No," she said, and adjusted her dress. "Nothing happened."

He could read her, though, and she didn't like it.

"Demetrius," he said, and she set her jaw and stared at him as though he were speaking a language with which she was not familiar.

"I'm sorry," he said, and she just shrugged.

He was letting her down even easier than his brother had, and all she had done was throw herself at him.

That made her feel even worse, strangely enough.

"I should go," she said, but before she could, Julien caught at the three-quarter length sleeve of her dress and she had to stop and look back at him.

"Eden," he said, and for the second time there was no 'lady' attached. "I don't suppose you'd like to go on a date with me."

If she had known trying to drunkenly seduce him would have this effect, she would have done so on the first day.

"In the morning?"

"There's no time like the present."

She stared at him. This was why being unable to read people unnerved her - this seemed completely uncharacteristic of him. "Now? It's the middle of the night."

"Early morning, actually," he said, and his smile was infectious and made her want to smile as well. "You're new to the castle. I barely know you yet, I can't believe I don't know what you would like to see - do you like reading?"

"Yes," Eden said simply, and did not mention that her preference in reading lay in people rather than novels, although she had devoured her fair share of books also.

He held out a hand. "Wait until you see the library," he said, and somehow the way he said it made the simple sentence seem almost charming so that she had to resist a smile.

It seemed wholly unlike him, or indeed her. Impromptu, spontaneous, impulsive.

She took his hand.

* * *

Jesse and the guard that Charlotte had begun to think of as _Jesse's soldier _said goodnight to one another in the foyer as the night drew to a close and the lanterns began to grow low. Charlotte stood to the side, giving Jesse and her admirers some space, looking on in distraction, lost in thought. As was rapidly becoming a habit for her, she straightened her dress, tucked back a stray strand of her and reached to adjust the corset tied to her wrist - only to find that it was not there.

She had left it in the ballroom.

Well, damn it.

She tried to catch Jesse's eye to indicate where she was going, but the other girl barely seemed to notice - in any case, Charlotte guessed that she would be there and back again before Jesse managed to pull herself away from some obviously important discussion she was having about the newest model of submachine guns being distributed in the military and funny boot camp stories. An air force girl like Charlotte had no hope of keeping up with a conversation like that, so she ducked away hastily and hoped she did not look rude or ingrateful.

In the palace, the entire place had been well lit and warm no matter the time of day. Not so in the castle - the candles were burning low and, with most of the maids busy for the evening attending the ball, the place was unusually bereft of fires, so that the chill from the snow-laden evening outside permeated the walls and the thin dress Charlotte wore.

All the same, she was glad that she had thought to invite the maids and the guards and the grooms and the butlers and all of the others, because it had been a far more entertaining night for having their presence. At one point, bolstered no doubt by the alcohol and the king's early retirement to bed, a few of the younger grooms had begun to sing an old folk song from Paloma that all of the household seemed to know the words to, and the entire ball had derailed into a sing-song and a barndance as the grooms sang folk songs and the maids whistled a working tune and the guards, joined by Charlotte and Jesse, had chanted a boot camp mantra and everyone else had danced and danced and danced. Rosalyn had even deigned, near the very end of the night, to pick up the flute to play a simple tune, and she had nearly moved the entire world to tears.

It would have been a perfect night, and provided Charlotte could find that damn corsage, it still could be.

The ballroom was empty, or nearly so, she could tell as she approached, and the little honey light that spilled through the crack in the ajar door was low and warm.

Charlotte would have opened the door if she hadn't happened to catch a flash of movement in the centre of the room and, more out of tiredness-fuelled curiousity than anything else, she paused to focus.

It was East, her hair falling down into a spiderweb of strands, and balancing precariously on her heels as she rested her head on her partner's shoulder and did not even attempt to sway wearily in a pretence of dance.

And of course, it was Demetrius that East was dancing with, a Demetrius that looked real and human as he pulled her in closer to him and then barely smiled at all as she said something quietly. He didn't look drunk. He looked tired.

He leaned back away from East to look at her in the face and then took a step back to that he could take her hands and then they started to actually dance - but not the graceful steps of the ball earlier. This was goofy and childish and fun - Demetrius spun East in a circle and twirled her, and she went with it, albeit slowly and awkwardly on the heels that had been fine when she was awake, not so much when she seemed half-asleep. Her eyes seemed heavily-lidded, darker than before, and she looked up at Demetrius through her eyelashes as though she were playing the role of what a girl in this situation should look like.

She pulled him in closer, leaning in close, and then pushed him away abrubtly and laughed, and walked away, out of Charlotte's line of vision, and he followed her, smiling.

He still couldn't take his eyes off her.

Charlotte shut the ballroom door quietly.

It would have been a perfect night, she thought.

It had been so close to a perfect night.

* * *

_"I think this is yours."_

_A pause._

_"It isn't."_

_Another pause as Demetrius' smile slipped from teasing to wry self- deprecation._

_"Oh."_

_"Yeah."_

_"Are you quite certain?"_

_East Smith laughed and leaned against the doorframe. She didn't tend to keep her smile on her face - a smile was a fleeting gesture for her, all the more precious for its transient nature. Her features were usually composed in that sly, serious look of hers that didn't leave room for smiling._

_"I'm not sure whether to be flattered or insulted your excuse to come and see me was so flimsy."_

_Demetrius ran a hand through his hair, and could not help but smile._

_"Is this how you charm all your girls, your highness?" East's voice was wry - he got the impression this wasn't the first time someone had tried to charm _her_. Her eyes were like flints, like a single spark would set them alight._

_"I'm 'your lordship', actually."_

_"I can see why you're so popular with the women."_

_His smile slipped only slightly as he watched her, but he kept his voice teasing._

_"If I were you, I would choose the flattered option."_

_"An excellent point. After all, you're out of my league."_

_"Not anymore."_

_That was right. She was a Selected now. No longer an Eight, even if she still looked and acted like one._

_She put a hand on his chest and pushed him from the door and he let her, his eyes never leaving her, that same wry, predatory smile he had first greeted her with still on his face for only a moment before it melted away and he looked at her with something approaching sincerity._

_It _wasn't_ sincerity, but it was close._

_"I don't suppose," he said, his voice low. "A midnight walk might take your fancy?"_

_"Good night, Demetrius." East's voice was teasingly soft._

_"Sleep well," he said, and she shut the door._

* * *

_**Remaining Selected - 13:**_

Charlotte Cohen

Evangeline Jones-Fitzwilliams

Eden Lamarie

Eilinora Winslow

Jesse Wren

Clementine Georges

Lani Watson

East Smith

Adalyn Larson

Anabel Moritz

Kelley Winston

Maya Hartwick

Rosalyn Akerman


	16. Chapter 16

**I'd like to apologise for the delay between the last chapter and this one, as well as this one's comparatively short length. You are also very much thrown into the middle of things - next chapter, we will flashback six hours or so and see what led to this point, following on directly from chapter fifteen. So, if you are confused, answers will be provided in the upcoming chapters!**

* * *

Islana slid the list of questions under Julien's door in the early hours of that Friday morning. She still wore her dress from the ball that had ended only a few sparse, scarce hours before - it was late morning now, the sun was not newly risen, and it was the first time in perhaps ten years that Islana had allowed herself to sleep in past sunrise. She had savoured it, and then she had set herself to work, because she was indeed a good maid.

And good maids did not allow themselves to be enticed into a prince's bedchambers, which was why she slid the note under Julien's door rather than hand it to him directly.

"You gave me rather short notice," she said accusingly - Qalu had remarked once that Islana rarely seemed as antagonistic towards the royal family as she thought most servants would be. Islana had refrained from pointing out that antagonism towards any aristrocracy tended to end painfully, whereas blind obedience got you knighted. It was a sign of her poor sleep the night before that she was being so blunt this morning.

No response from the other side of the door.

Bastard was still asleep.

Speaking of bastards... The door a little further down the hallway swung open, and Islana could not fight her instinct but to duck around the corner and hide, even though she was well within reason to be up in the royal family's quarters so early in the morning - who else polished all of the doorknobs and staircase railings?

Nonetheless, hide she did, and she was glad to see that it was not one of the Selected to emerge from Demetrius' rooms - glad, because she did not want to be responsible for anyone's execution, no matter how vastly irritating she found the Selection. No, the woman that exited now was tall and bronzed and confident - the woman from the Italian prince's entourage, the one Demetrius had flirted with and then dumped to dance with the war hero. She had, Islana remembered, looked quite put out.

She didn't look _quite_ so put out now, of course.

It was only after she had disappeared down the hall that Demetrius himself dared to emerge - without a shirt, Islana noticed, a state of undress which would have made another girl's heart explode. He didn't look as happy as one would expect, especially with such a beautiful woman having just left his bedroom. He looked thoughtful more than anything else.

He caught sight of Islana, though she was adept at blending into the walls - people often forgot, through Demetrius' own pretense at reckless idiocy and because of Julien's own laser-like gaze, that the elder brother was just as perceptive as the younger.

"Julien's little bird," he said, and Islana felt her lip curl out of habit as she looked at him, disliking what he was implying.

"Yes," she replied simply, and his smile grew.

"I did wonder," he began, and then shook his head. "I take it he has you ghostwriting those questions for the Report later?"

Islana nodded. He didn't recognise her, she realised - or rather, he recognised her merely as a maid.

He remembered what had happened to Angrec, that much was clear, but he didn't seem to have remembered that Islana remembered Angrec too.

"If I may," Demetrius said, and his smile grew wicked. "Suggest an extra question."

* * *

_"I'm not the villain of this story," East said, and although her voice was as level as it always was, Charlotte dedicated that thread of threat running through her voice._

_She stared at East. Of all these Selected girls, the Zuni girl was the only one Charlotte could not get a grip on - she was as changeable as a storm and twice as dangerous._

_And she was winning._

_East still looked like an Eight. She always had. Intense and wild and strong. Her eyes met Charlotte's and they burned right through her._

_Charlotte looked like a true Two now. Not the soldier kind. The kind that sat back and watched the world burn, the world she had set alight. Beautiful and elegant and perfect._

_It was obvious which Illea would support. East had spun a little fairytale for the country, one_ _she had shown for all to see on the Report, and Charlotte was not the heroine of it._

_Who didn't love an underdog?_

_"I thought we were friends," she said, and it was the only thing she could say that would not sound pathetic._

_East just stared at her._

_"Girls." Klara appeared around the corner, her high heels clacking. "What on earth are you two doing out here?"_

_Both girls turned - East's smile, when it began, was slow and sweet. She looked now, and for all the world, a rags-to-riches story, a dark-haired, dark-eyed Cinderella from a picture book._

_Charlotte's little shadow, grown sharp and scary._

_"Nothing," she said, and Charlotte could only stare as East walked past her and disappeared down the stairs._

_Somewhere in the depths of the_ _castle, a clock was chiming midnight._

* * *

Hani Watson was so exhausted from his work that afternoon that his eldest son, the responsible child now that his sister was away at the palace, promised to wake him up when Lani was on screen and the thirty-eight year old labourer was soon fast asleep in his armchair, his twin daughters tiptoeing around to avoid waking him as they made popcorn for the Report.

Fifteen year old Jackson was taking his new role as eldest in the house almost comically seriously, and he soon had little Kalea and Lahela coralled onto the long, beat-up couch that took up most of the tiny sitting room, a bowl of popcorn between them as the anthem played, slightly muted, on the dented television set. Kalea leaned forward eagerly as the nation's seal faded away and the image cut to the familiar Studio set, with one striming difference - on the right hand side of the screen was a set of tiered seating arranged in four by four, the girls scattered amongst the spaces.

Lani was easy to pick out - her waist-length curly hair had been left loose for the occasion, and her eyes shone as she looked at the camera. As though she could tell her family was watching, she gave a little smile, her dimples creasing her cheeks, before the image cut away to the royal family and the ever-familiar Gavril Fadaye, who looked positively ecstatic to be there, even though he was there every single Friday.

King Maxon's opening address was as dry as ever it was, and nearly everything that had happened in the country that week seemed to have been attributed, in some way, to the rebels - delayed reconstruction in northern Zuni, delayed supplies to isolated Sumner, increasing crime levels in southern Honduragua, an explosion in Midton. That, more than anything else that had been announced, frightened Jackson a little, though he did not allow his sisters to see - Midton was, as the name suggested, in the centre of the country, quite close to Angeles and indeed Dakota itself, and he had never heard of rebels coming so far north.

But the king seemed no more eager to dwell on these reports than anyone else, and Jackson guessed that there hadn't been much financial news that week, because they cut immediately then to Gavril, whose pearly white smile and shiny green suit was a welcome sight. His familiar silver pin flashed on his lapel.

Lahela and Kalea sang his trademark opening with him. "Goooood evening, Illea!"

Gavril flashed his smile again before he continued. "Tonight, I'm pleased - no, scratch that, I'm absolutely thrilled to say that I will be interviewing these lovely ladies behind me! Two months into the competition, my friends, and with twenty two girls gone already, the Selected remain wholly a mystery to us! Let's hope we can dispel some of that mystery tonight, with interviews with girls and prince alike! Please, join me in welcoming our first victim - I mean, guest -" He winked at the camera, brassy and bold. "Rosalyn Akerman of Bonita!"

Rosalyn was beautiful, Jackson thought, and it was true. She was all grass-green eyes and porcelain skin and chocolate brown hair gathered up in an elegant bun behind her. Her dress was the colour of the sky, and sparkled like the stars. But it was her smile that made Jackson pay attention to her, and it was her smile that made Lahela whisper something to her twin that made the other nod vigorously.

Rosalyn greeted Gavril with a hug, and then sat opposite him, patting a strand of hair back into place. She smiled in earnest as Gavril waited for the applause to die down - clearly this Rosalyn was some kind of fan favourite, but she seemed endearingly oblivious to this, blushing a little, and sneaking glances at the camera with a slightly shy look.

"I think you may be popular," Gavril said wryly, and Rosalyn laughed.

"No more so than anyone else, I think!"

"You know _Angeles Weekly_ did a reader's poll this week, don't you? On favourite and least favourite Selected girls?"

Rosalyn gasped and pretended to cover her ears. "Nope, I don't want to know! Let me guess, was I last?" Her voice was teasingly self-deprecating, her eyes alive with mirth.

"Not quite."

"Second last, then. You're right - you see, my dear friend and acquaintance, Clementine Georges, simply insists on being the best at everything I am good at-" There was laughter from the tiered seating, and the camera panned over to show a girl with fierce orange and purple hair shrugging with an unapologetic look on her face as Lani, giggling with the others, threw her a look that said _that's true and you know_ _it_. "So if I am disliked," Rosalyn continued. "Clementine insists upon being _hated_."

Gavril laughed along with them. "Well, lucky for you two, neither of you seem to be hated. The poll comes out in tomorrow's edition - I won't spoil anything! But may I ask, what do you think has led to your popularity? What is your greatest strength in this competition?"

"Well, as I'm sure all of the Selection knows by now, I'm not the sharpest tool in the shed," Rosalyn said with a smile. "I am a bit of a hopeless romantic, it must be said - and it has been said, plenty. My dear Eden Lamarie is nothing if not honest! But I do my best to be kind to everyone and to treat everyone well, and I think that helps. When you come into a competition this high-profile, you have this expectation of a huge big rivalry, you know, and I've really done my best to try and avoid that on my part. Every girl here is beautiful and talented and intelligent, and they're going to go on to do great things beyond the Selection, so why bother be cruel to one another?"

"It sounds like you're the kind of queen Illea could do with."

"I don't know about queen. I'd settle for Elite any day of the week." Rosalyn's smile was contagious, and Gavril was soon beaming as well.

"Thank you very much, my dear Lady." He barely waited at all for her to return to her seat before he called the next name. "Lani Watson, of Dakota!"

Hani Watson's awakening was not a gentle one.

* * *

Angelica Lamarie's long lacquered nails clicked against the screen as she tapled the girl's face.

"_There_. Right there. That's our competition."

Eilinora Winslow was smiling beatifically, leaning in to kiss Gavril Fadaye on the cheek. Her hair was perfect. Her dress was perfect. She was perfect.

How Angelica hated her.

Eden Lamarie's mother settled back into her chair, her fingers curled around her glass, and if any woman could have made a pink fruit cocktail look threatening, it was this one. Her eldest son, Valor, did not, however, look threatened as he threw his mother a look.

"They're _all_ her competition," he said, and stressed the _her_ \- the twenty-four year old playboy was clearly not interested in his mother and sister's schemes for the throne.

"Not all," Angelica argued, flicking her nails at the screen once more. "The soldier girl - terrible hair, boring personality, no initiative. That five girl, the Larson one - cloyingly sweet, if you ask me, just like the Akerman one. The Six - bland, bad posture. She has ridiculous hair, the girl there, the artist with the name as awful as her hair. The Eight - ugly, low class, dull as paint. That Evangeline, barely able to squeak out two words between stutters. Moritz and Hartwick, both Fives, both unmemorable. Believe you me, boy, this competition is a small one if we're honest with ourselves, and there's only four left in it - Kelley Winston, Charlotte Cohen, your sister and that girl there."

Selma Lamarie, the youngest of the family, did not look as though she entirely agreed with her mother's interpretation, but she remained silent as Angelica refocused on the events onscreen.

Eilinora was just talking about the arrangement of the winter ball, and Angelica's eyes narrowed.

"Everyone played their part, and I think it came together really well," the model was saying, flicking a strand of hair over her shoulder. "It was a great night, it was - and I was so glad that it went smoothly. My role was a small one, I'll admit that to anyone who asks! I can't take credit. It was wonderful."

"And you danced with the prince...?"

Eilinora laughed, and darted a glance over to the man in question, who looked smitten.

He had, Angelica had noted, looked alternately smitten, enchanted, lovestruck, adoring and charmed by the last five girls to be interviewed on screen. He wasn't in love with a single one of them, not yet, but it served his purposes to pretend to the nation that each and every one of them were in for a chance.

"He's a great dancer," Eilinora said, turning back to Gavril. "And very courteous - I must have tripped over him a thousand times, but he just kept laughing it off!"

"Would you say that's what surprised you most about the prince? His courteousness?"

Eilinora thought for a moment - Angelica focused on her daughter's competition, searching for some kind of flaw in the girl, some minute character weakness. Everyone had some imperfection, but this girl had clearly hidden hers well for the Report. It was strange, Angelica mused - in all of the programs before this Report, she had never really paid this girl much heed. Oh, she had known that Eilinora was one of the front runners, but she had not stopped to consider the other girl's tactics, the other girl's plan of action. She was, much like the tall soldier girl, perfectly inoffensive and palatable - but neither had yet displayed on-screen that spark that kept people glued to the screen.

Eilinora was just plain nice. And nice did not make good television.

Eden was not nice, of that Angelica was proud, and she had that spark, when she chose to show it - Angelica had never been more ashamed of her daughter than when the first interview with her had aired, the one immediately after the makeovers when Eden had immediately censored herself of anything that would seem unfair, unfriendly, petty - anything interesting, in other words, and Angelica had made it clear to her daughter just how unacceptable this was over the phone as part of the lone phone call they had been grsnted after the rebel attack. She had paid little attention to the fact that Eden had been in the very centre of the attack when it had begun - she had focused on what mattered. Eden was alive, Eden was still in the Selection, and Angelica had to ensure Eden won the throne.

(sabotage was such an ugly term, but angelica wasn't afraid to call it what it was really, and she hoped eden would have no such compunctions either)

Eden was not nice. She was ruthless, and she would get the throne. Her mother, her father, her entire childhood would ensure that she would get the throne.

Eilinora was Eden's rival, she was their competition, but Eden was so far ahead that it seemed a little unfair to even pretend they were in the same league.

"Probably his sense of humour," Eilinora admitted after such a long moment, looking back to Gavril. "I didn't know princes were allowed to laugh as much as he does! I always thought him rather dry when I saw him on the report, but last night we all had a wonderful time together. I think, and hope, no matter who ends up winning this Selection, I've managed to surpass myself by making some friends - and I'd be honoured to count his highness among them."

The prince smiled - from what Angelica could see, it appeared genuine.

Friends.

She had to stop herself from laughing.

Angelica Lamarie knew there was no room in the Selection for friends.

* * *

"Lady East Smith of Zuni!"

Grace Cohen watched closely as her sister's dark-haired friend rose and picked her way carefully down the steps - her heels were still skyscrapers, as they always seemed to be, but now they were pointed, slender stilettos that made Grace suspect that the other girl would pitch head first down the tiered steps.

Her sister had referred to this girl as the shadow, and Grace could clearly see why - her eyes were smoky with kohl, her dark hair managed to be messy, and her entire face was sharp enough that there were shades and relief playing on her features as she walked.

Charlotte had managed to send only one, shora and crisp letter to the family before the palace had gone into what the Report had called a '_military review_' following a '_minor security_ _breach_'. Grace's father Hank had decoded this jargon for the family as tactfully as he ever did - "They mean they put the palace into lockdown after the rebels got inside," he had muttered darkly as the family had watched the late November Report.

Grace's mother Lavinia had put her hand to her mouth had this news, staring at her husband in abject horror. "Charlotte," she had whispered, and Grace had read the panic in her mother's face. Lavinia had encouraged her eldest daughter into the Selection to avoid war and chaos and fighting, and now it sounded as though she was in more danger than ever.

"Will be fine," had been Hank Cohen's response. "She's a fighter, our daughter. Like it or not."

She looked like a fighter, Grace had to admit now, looking at her sister onscreen, although now she was fighting for something else entirely - her back was as straight as a rod, her hair arranged in perfect ringlets, dressed in a long dark blue dress that swept the floor and created figure where there was none. Her eyes sparkled in the lights of the Report studio, and Grace wondered if the prince had fallen in love with her yet. If he hadn't yet, he would soon.

Speaking of which, there he was - Prince Julien, handsome and poised, and Grace felt that familiar stab of jealousy that her sister, of all people, was in the Selection. But that feeling was soon overridden by pride that her sister had made it this far, and she appraised the prince as one might a prospective brother-in-law. He looked kind enough, Grace thought - his expression was almost comically concerned that East would fall down the stairs.

Luckily, no such mishap occurred and East found her way safely to the seat opposite Gavril on the podium.

In the background, Charlotte and the tall girl with cropped hair relaxed at the exact same second. When had either of them become protective of the shadow Charlotte had written of in her letter? Grace had to wonder if maybe this was an act. What reason would any of the girls have to be protective of a rival?

"A delight," Gavril said, and East nodded her head politely - unlike the other girls, she did not smile or betray a hint of emotion, other than a calm demeanour. Her face was set, her cheekbones prominent and her jaw determined. She did not look as sweet and queenly as the other girls, but she looked distinctive.

She would be remembered.

Grace wished she could take notes.

"Wonderful to meet you," Gavril enthused, seeking some kind of a reaction from the diminuitive girl, and after a long, considering moment, East's stiff facade did not crack, but the corner of her mouth curled.

"Wonderful to be here," she said, tucking a stray hair behind her ear. "Don't pay any attention to me if I keel over, though. I'm very nervous." Her voice was dry, and she was clearly as calm as she could possibly be.

"You don't seem so!"

"It wouldn't do to betray a weakness, now, would it, Gavril?"

He beamed. "No, I suppose it wouldn't! So, tell me - it would seem the competition is heating up, is it? I think we've all been waiting to see some drama unfold!"

"I'm not the dramatic type," East said. In all of the programs about the Selection - in which Grace had caught only fleeting glimpses of Charlotte - Grace thought this may have been the most she had ever heard the Eight girl say in one conversation. She had appeared mainly in the background, seeming as undramatic as it was possible to be - she was so boring and flat the cameras had paid her little heed, focusing instead on optimistic, romantic Adalyn, sweet, friendly Rosalyn, warm, determined Lani and strong, charismatic Eden. "But with only thirteen of us remaining, it was inevitable that we begin to get a bit more competitive."

"Indeed, thirteen! Very nearly the Elite - and you remain the lowest caste girl in the Selection. Do you think this might hurt your chances?"

East smiled for the first time. "I don't think so. It's part of the story, isn't it? The fairytale we're all dreaming of. Rags to riches. I'm still waiting for my glass slippers to arrive, but rest assured that I'm not going to fade out of this competition without a fight."

Her voice was perfectly even.

Gavril looked delighted to have this opportunity, for her to have given him this in he required, and he glanced only briefly down at his notes before he continued. The camera kept in tight to East's face, and Grace had to wonder if the small girl had anyone watching at home - she did not, as so many other girls had, look at the camera as though seeking family and friends.

"Rags indeed. If I may ask you, Lady East - and I know Illea is as eager to get to know you as I - our mystery girl, our Eight, our underdog, our East- but all the same, this is a rather private, personal, painful situation - if I may ask - I hope you don't mind - about the -"

Grace could pinpoint the exact moment the girl realised what Gavril was talking about, but her expression did not change.

Her eyes changed. Her eyes _shone_.

"You're asking about my family."

"I am."

East's voice was laced with bitterness. "It's not a happy story."

"Few stories are."

"This one," East said, and indicated the world around her, the Selection, her as a Selected. "Will be." She took a breath, more for effect than anything else - even if she wasn't a soldier, Grace was Hank Cohen's daughter and Charlotte Cohen's sister, and she could pick out a lie from a mile away. East's inhalation was controlled, her exhalation measured, and she seemed to almost count her seconds to herself before she looked up again. "It was quite a time ago, you understand."

"I do."

"The rebel situation was far worse then, and I give my admiration to King Maxon and his generals for ensuring that it is no longer so." Beside Grace, her father sounded suspicious as he _hmm_ed and gave his wife a glance. Onscreen, East looked over towards the king and queen, and Gavril did also. The prince's expression was a confusing one, Grace thought - his face remained rather blank, controlled, but he leaned forward slightly in his seat as though he hoped he could read East's face. "My home province, Zuni. The entire place was aflame - this was after the Midnight Riots, you see."

Gavril nodded, and an audible hush went over the studio - no one had been speaking previously, of course not, but now no one seemed to be even breathing. The Midnight Riots were a thing of legend, a scar on Illea's history, the biggest mistake of King Maxon's reign.

It had been hell.

Hank Cohen's grip on his whiskey glass tightened, and he focused on the television with an intensity that should have, by all rights, set it alight.

"We fled," East said, and even as Grace paid close attention, she had to admire the girl as a liar - other girls had been good actresses, true, but that had been a performance. This East was a con artist, and it was indeed art. Her voice went low, hushed, rough as scraped velvet. "Carrying what we could. I remember - we left my grandparents where they lay. We stepped over the body of my best friend. We ignored the screams of my little brother as he died. I was thirteen years old."

Grace's father was in risk of breaking his whiskey glass with the grip he held on it. On screen, Gavril's face was grave.

"A refugee camp outside Zuni," East said. "The Sumner mountains. We were told we would be safe there until we could return home to bury our dead. But there were so many, they were everywhere, and more everyday, we couldn't -" She paused, as though to collect herself. "We stayed there for three days without supplies. The mountains, they're bare rock. This is winter - any grass is dead. We are no strangers to hunger, but we know now that we are going to starve. Then-"

It should have been unthinkable, impossible, but the cameras focused, not on East, but on Charlotte in the background. Grace's sister, Lavinia's daughter, Hank's soldier. Charlotte Cohen, the war hero.

East's voice was steady. "Then we hear the planes."


	17. Chapter 17

Maids know more than they should.

This is a fact true of all maids, and especially true of a maid like Islana - a good maid, that is.

She knew when Maya Hartwick went out into the rose garden (at dawn and at sunset, to best capture the light as it stained the sky, so there was to be blankets and newly warmed clothes laid out in her room and kept toasty at all moments for whenever she chose to return so that she did not catch some kind of a cold that would compromise the Selection).

She knew the allergies of all thirteen girls that remained, and what dishes could be cooked and for whom (No peanuts, or indeed any nuts at all, for the girl called Clementine, whose all-too-pretty face was inclined to swell up like a bubble if she ingested the stuff, snd that would indeed be an unpleasant mental image for any prince considering her for wife material).

She knew the dreams, passions, fears and quirks of each of the Selected girls, all thirteen of them -

And she knew, as all maids know, secrets.

The royal family of Illea kept many secrets and now, so did the Selection.

* * *

Of all the ways that Eden Lamarie had imagined waking up in the prince's chambers, she had not imagined a morning like this.

For starters, the prince was not even in the room - she could only catch tthe corner of his shoe at the edge of the door, where he had retired to the couch in another room to give her the bed.

Eden had a heart of stone, but even that little detail touched her a little bit.

Of course, if she had learnt anything from their date last night - but had it been a date, she wondered, could it be given that title? - it was that Julien could be charming and disarming at the most unexpected of moments.

There had been no picnics or woodland hunts for Eden. Julien had shown her a secret hatch leading to the roof, hidden by a stack of folding ladders in the library, and they had climbed up onto it, he in his suit and she in her dress, tripping over her heels not-entirely-purposefully so that he had to catch her before she hit the floor face-first - not the graceful kind of a catch that all the movies and paintings depicted, but a slightly chaotic grasp so that he had staggered slightly too and then she had started laughing and he couldn't help but laugh a little too.

Even then, she hadn't been able to read him.

She hadn't been able to read him at all - not for the entirety of the date, not while they stared at the sky and not while she told him about her brother and sister and not while he told her about his father's increasingly frail health. She had been totally, entirely unable to read him, and that had thrilled and intrigued her more tthan anything.

She wasn't in love with him - he had said as much himself. She had still thought of Demetrius, who was cruel and cold, even as she talked with Julien, who was cool and dependable. But she was no longer enamoured with the former, and she thought sometimes that - given time, of course - the latter might not be so bad to be around.

He certainly had an eye for views. The sky was the most beautiful that Eden had ever seen it - clear of the Angeles smog which blurred the horizon at home, the stars burned with ferocity against black velvet and the rugged purples and greens and greys of the snow-bound mountains that scraped the sky at the edge of the world. The soldier outposts were mere pinpricks of fire in the darkness below, and at the outer border of the castle walls, there was simply... nothing. A large, unending encompass of nothingness, darkness that was hardly more exciting in the light.

Julien had given Eden his jacket when the chill had seeped to her skin, and somehow that was everything.

She checked herself in the mirror, and wondered if her mother would be proud.

No sabotage necessary.

Her long hair was wild, and she knew that she hadn't enough time to remedy that, so she just rearranged it all to be less so, so that it looked artfully messy, a just-woke-up-in-the-wrong-bed look. Her makeup was smudged, so she wiped it away with the back of her hand, noting, not without amusement, that she still wore her Winter Ball dress, as Julien still wore his suit.

She was using him - using him for his throne, to get back at Demetrius, to prove that she could use him - but she couldn't help but appreciate how kind he had been to her at the same time.

He hadn't so much as kissed her.

She found her high heels only after a considerable hunt for them, half-hidden as they were under the bed, and decided against trying to wear them down to her room - she was decidedly hungover, although less so than she had been after her eighteenth birthday in Angeles, so she doubted her balancing abilities at this moment at time.

By the time she had made her way out of the bedroom and towards the door, Julien himself was awake already also. Even though Eden knew intellectually that someone newly woken was open, their secrets vulnerable to thieves such as her, she could take nothing from his expression, his eyes - only that he was tired, which was hardly a secret.

Demetrius had been different, although she knew it was somehow misguided to compare a prince and a mere lord. He had been open, even if he knew she would not like what he was open about. When he was bored of her, irritated by her, distracted by something or someone else, he made it clear.

Julien seemed to dedicate all of his attention to one person at a time, and Eden didn't know yet whether she liked that.

"You're going?" he said.

"It's nearly seven o'clock," Eden replied, picking up the jacket he had given her. "I have to go - you don't want someone to see me coming out of your room and getting the wrong idea, do you?"

She arched an eyebrow, and he chuckled, shaking his head.

"Fair point. I'll walk you down to the -"

A sudden, frighteningly abrupt knock, and Julien raised a slender finger to his lips, nodding his head towards the main door. Eden understood, and came to sit beside Julien on the couch as the first knock was followed by a second, and then a rapid-fire rapping of irritated taps.

Julien looked more amused than Eden had ever seen him. "Wait for it," he said softly, and then there was a sharp sound like someone had kicked the door and a scowly, irritated mutter of, "Bastard!'

Some poor heart-broken girl, Eden assumed, and it pissed her off that Julien, who seemed calm and cool and dependable, was smiling like he was.

"Are you sure you and Demetrius aren't related?" she muttered, flicking a look at him from under her lashes as she relented and tied back on her heels.

Julien just smiled, although he managed to tear his gaze away from the door to look at Eden. "My sister insists that all guys are the same deep down."

"God, I hope not." Eden rolled her mascara-stained eyes and stood, ignoring Julien's mute offer of help as she teetered on her heels.

"I'll see you at dinner," Julien said, and Eden smirked.

"You'd better. Otherwise-" She dangled his jacket towards him on one finger. "You'll have to forget about seeing this again. And believe me, it feels expensive."

Julien smiled and Eden, impulsively, leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek - barely a brush on the cheek, almost an apology for her surprise attack the previous evening.

"Thanks for a great date," she murmured, and then she turned and she walked away.

Her heels went click click click like a ticking time bomb.

* * *

Adalyn had never smiled as much before as when she woke up the next morning to find a small box, wrapped in shiny paper and tied off with a bow, waiting for her on her vanity table.

This castle would taking some getting used to, she had decided several weeks ago, and as she rose to look at this new gift, she realised anew that she was still not acclimatised to the cold of the north or the silence of the mountains.

She missed home, but she almost managed to forget her homesickness as she carefully began to unwrap the paper that concealed this box from view.

There was a note affixed to it, written in the same sloped cursive that had described her bouquets of violet wolfsbane and golden jonquils as respresenting faith in humanity and returned affection. This note was far simpler - it just read_, la vie en rose_.

Inside, she found the most beautiful comb she had ever seen in her life. Each slender silver prong shone in the light, and the bridge was crafted from what looked to Adalyn's amateur eye like diamonds and marble and gold, shaped into delicate pink roses and thorns that tangled along the edge as though they had grown there organically.

She lifted it reverently, as one might a first child or holy object, and then looked at herself in the mirror - her updo had somehow survived the night, so she carefully slid the comb into place at the apex of her bun and then she had to smile at just how terribly in love she looked. She shone with it - she couldn't look herself in the eye.

It was still early enough, and there was only silence - the other girls had not yet roused - so Adalyn took a long bath with all of the oils and lotions that smelled so wonderful, and made her hair resemble so much finely spun gold. She closed her eyes, and she dreamed, and then she towelled herself dry and she chose her dress at length - her ballgown lay on her bed, still pristine and perfect, and she thought of it as inspiration as she pulled out a pale pink dress of tulle and chiffon.

She dressed, and she wound up her hair into a delicate updo that allowed a few strands loose around her face, and then she added the comb once more and smiled, even as there was a sharp knock on the door and her maid, Yasmin, peeked around the door.

"Lady Adalyn? You are to assemble in the Women's Room for breakfast soon."

"Yasmin," Adalyn said, sharper than she intended as she stood up from her vanity table. "You know you don't need to call me that."

But Yasmin was impressively resistant. "It wouldn't be right," she said hastily. "It's nothing personal, your ladyship. But you're you. And we're us."

Adalyn had been a Five.

But that didn't seem to matter anymore.

"I'll be right down," she said, and Yasmin retreated swiftly.

Adalyn looked in her mirror. The previous evening had served to impress one thing upon her - this was getting serious. She couldn't go into this competition treating it as a vacation anymore. She was a competitor. And she had to act like it.

She straightened her back. Touched her comb as though for good luck. And followed Yasmin out the door.

She wasn't doing so badly, of course. Was she?

Julien had sent her a gift. He had danced with her. He had remembered her.

The first thing she saw as she walked into the Women's Room was the delicate golden chain that Anabel Moritz wore - a _gift from the prince_, she gushed, and Adalyn's smile was gone before she could think.

* * *

"You can't allow them to get away with this," the counsel West said, and, slamming his fist on the table, sent a map jumping and jittering across the table.

"Three of our men," Counsel Fitzwilliams agreed, striding back and forth. "We must consider the treaty void. New Asia will not hesitate to use their lives against us."

"We have taken many more of theirs," Counsel Patel argued, her dark skin flushed. "How many men rot in our cells? How many do _not_?"

She cast a dark glance around the men and women assembled.

The king looked as though he weren't entirely sure where he was or why they were arguing - his eyes were clouded, with weariness and pain, and Julien found himself leaning even closer towards his father in the hopes that it would lend him some credibility, give his father some strength.

He was fading so impossibly fast.

Demetrius had no such concern. It had been years since the elder Shreave brother had sat in on a tactical meeting - he was more into action that diplomacy, it had to be said - and Julien thought this had to mark the first time in a dozen years that Demetrius seemed focused on a subject that did not involve drink, gambling or women.

"Italy will ally with us," he said abruptly, and Julien was not alone in glancing at the lord. "Your Selected girls have ensured that. We may rely on Swendway also."

"You think we should move to action?" Fitzwilliams this time. He had never liked Demetrius, but to say he hated him would indicate a degree of care which Fitzwilliams simply did not feel for the man. Demetrius was an obstacle to Fitzwilliams - the only obstacle, once Maxon was dead, to controlling the throne through Julien.

But he had a keen military mind, that had to be said.

"No," Demetrius said. "You provoke the other side - provoke them to making good on their threats. If they don't, they have proven they are toothless. And if they do, well, once they kill the hostages, they have no leverage."

"Three men," West repeated. "Three _lives_."

"To end a war that has killed thirty thousand?" Demetrius retorted. "I'd be glad of it."

"And then?" Counsel Trent enquired.

"Then, with alliances in place, you move. Secure key access points - I'd suggest locations such as Bishkek, _here_, which closes off the entire Federation to New Asia, and Shanghai, their main military port. From there, take out or take control of those key locations you already have marked - there, there and there. They are as weak as us, but they don't realise - their army is fracturing under its command. Civil war was brewing - inevitable, given the expanse of land they control. Take advantage of their divisions, and strike fast and hard. Make it clear they won't win, and then offer them peace on _our_ terms."

"I'm truly glad," Soldier Kent said suddenly from his position at the head of the tactical table. "That I never had the displeasure to face you in battle. I heard you were ferocious as a soldier."

Demetrius rubbed at his jaw. "I won," he said simply, and Julien had to avert his eyes, because none of his etiquette lessons and military meetings and royal schooling would ever teach him that which came naturally to Demetrius, who would never have to become king, and who would have made a greater king that Julien could ever aspire to be.

Provided he remained sober, of course.

* * *

Lani had to find a hiding place, and her experience as a maid herself at a high-end hotel in Dakota had taught her that inquiring minds could find anything that was hidden anywhere.

Hidden in plain sight seemed to be her best bet here, a detail she knew from hard-earned experience, so she pushed aside some of the dusty books that crowded the shelves and looked as though they had never been opened in their life and she carefully arranged the fan so that it lay against the books as casually as if it had been thrown there. Then, carefully, she pinched some dust from behind the bookshelf, where it couldn't be seen, and blew it over the fan and the shelf it lay on so that it looked as undisturbed as the rest of the shelves' contents.

It seemed sacrilege to be so barbaric towards such a beautiful object, to coat it in dust - the ribs of the folding fan were of the finest brazilian rosewood, perfectly carved and curved. This had been layered over with smooth venetian silk in shades of purples and pale blues and pale pinks, like a sunset in Italy, and delicate embroidery stitching along tthe lace edge detailed the first two stanzas of a famous poem that Lani's mother had once read to her, but to which she had forgotten the words.

Lani wanted nothing more than to retrieve the fan and snap it open and bring it down to the Women's Room with pride, but she restrained herself, knowing that she would figure out some way soon to disguise the origin of the fan so that she could carry it and she alone would know its significance.

She wondered whether Constantino had meant a single word of what he had said to her.

But for the moment, to even own the fan was treason, so she shut the glass doors that guarded the bookshelves and locked them and sat down and waited for her maids to guide her down to the Women's Room.

* * *

"A Report?" Eilinora repeated, staring at Klara from her desk in the classroom as the other girls erupted into whispers. "So soon?"

"With only thirteen of you remaining and the Selection continuing at so swift a pace," Klara said sternly. "It's important that the nation get to know you all. Get invested."

"But tonight?" Eilinora was grateful that her voice did not become strident at this, but the stress in her voice wwas evident to anyone who cared to listen.

"Tonight," Klara confirmed. "And I must warn you all - the questions Gavril will ask you are being written by the prince himself."

Eilinora stared, and she wasn't the only one.

"This is a test for you all as much as the Winter Ball was," Klara warned. She made it sound as though the event had been weeks ago, rather than the previous evening - Eden still seemed half-asleep, having returned to her room at a very, very late hour.

Not that she would tell the other girls anything of what had transpired, although the whispers had started the second that Eden had shown up in the Women's Room in Julien's navy jacket from the Ball.

She just smiled whenever anyone asked, with a flick of her hair and a glance at her nails.

Eden certainly knew how to play her cards.

Well, so did Eilinora.

And then, Klara just kept on talking, holding up her hands for quiet.

"Hush. Now. Whichever of you manage to survive past the Report -" And here she cast a threatening eye over the girls as though she fully expected to see about a quarter of them remaining the next day. "There will be a family visit permitted for the members of the Elite."

Sometimes Eilinora wondered if some of these girls even had families or pasts - girls like East, spun from smoke, or Clementine, who seemed at times entirely too fierce to have anything as mundane as kin, or Eden, who didn't seem the type to have the time or patience for things like family.

"Family visit?" Evangeline repeated, her eyebrows arched. She was another one - Eilinora had never heard her so much as mention relatives.

"Yeah," Clementine snarked from the seat behind her. "You know, a family visit, Evey? It's where your immediate kin come on a sojourn to see you in person. If I had a dictionary, no doubt I could explain more comprehensively."

There was some laughter, mainly from Evangeline herself and Rosalyn Akerman, but Eilinora and, she could see, Eden, remained serious.

She nodded, even as the other girls looked shocked. If the Report was tonight, she thought, she had no time to panic.

She had eight hours to prepare. That would be enough. That would be plenty.

* * *

It shouldn't have been a surprise to Charlotte that East wore jeans rather than dresses, but the other girl's appearance still took her by surprise when the Eight turned up at her door with half an hour to go until they were due to assemble in the studio for the Report, still dressed in a raggedy navy sweater and grey jeans that had once perhaps been black.

She apologetically held up a wrapped bag that no doubt held her dress. "Would you mind if I got changed in here? My room's freezing."

Charlotte still wasn't used to actually hearing the other girl's voice - the hints of a Zuni accent were subtle, like honey coating broken glass, because her voice itself was husky and smoky and lower than her petite frame would suggest. She sounded perpetually cruelly amused, even when her expression lent itself to a genuine expression, as it did now.

Charlotte found herself relenting, more out of pragmatism than anything else.

Keep your friends close. Keep your enemies closer. And keep enigmas as close as you can.

"Knock yourself out," she said, and let the other girl slip in past her. Charlotte was ready, and had been for the past half hour or so, so she found herself scrutinising this new competition as she might an enemy in the air. East had taken everyone by surprise at the Winter Ball with the way she had excelled at the task despite appearing to have no idea what anyone was talking about in the weeks leading up to it, and that made Charlotte assess her with new eyes - this girl was playing the long game, and she was playing Demetrius and Julien at the same time, Charlotte thought.

You almost had to admire the girl.

But then, moments like this gave Charlotte pause - half an hour to the Report, and East was still clearly relaxed, just putting on her dress now. Maybe she wasn't playing any game. Was it possible for someone to be that careless, that reckless with their chance at the Selection?

Not someone who smiled like East Smith did.

Her dress had long black leather sleeves as soft as butter and barely came to her thigh in the purest white fabric that made her hair and eyes even darker. She gathered all of her hair out of her way and skewered it with a hair-stick before glancing at Charlotte.

"You look good," she said guardedly, and Charlotte responded with a smile.

"Thank you." She adjusted the corsage on her wrist awkwardly, rethinking for the thousandth time about wearing it, but if East noticed, she gave no indication as she studied her reflection in the mirror.

"Are those yours?"

Charlotte turned, almost without thinking - 'those' were two of the medals her father had insisted on her bringing with her to the palace. There was the scarlet cross, and the medal of merit - Charlotte had forgotten which was for bravery and which was for honour, and she frankly didn't care. They had been pinned just above her bouquet of flowers from Julien, and she privately felt that the flowers themselves said a lot more about her than the medals ever would.

"You must have been very brave," East said.

"That's not the word," Charlotte said, and pushed away thoughts of the rebel raid when she had lost herself to panic and memories. She had not been brave then. "I'm not - that's not me anymore."

Jesse was happy to remain Soldier first, Lady second. How did she sleep at night, Charlotte wondered. How could she?

"Brave," East repeated, emphasizing the word, and turned back to the mirror as though neither of them had spoken.

There was silence for a long moment as the footsteps began to traffic outside the door and Klara's now-familiar voice began to chide people into place.

Charlotte glanced at the strange girl she did not like or trust.

"Ready?"

"Nearly - my dress barely fits. I've doubled in size since I came here," East said with a laugh, and Charlotte wondered how emaciated the slender girl had been when she had arrived if she considered her current appearance to be heavier.

This girl changed moods like other girls changed clothes.

"The food you're serving us, no wonder," she replied, dropping her hand from the corsage and leaning back on her bed. East smiled a little, and her gaze met Charlotte's in the mirror.

"You mean last night? It turned out better than I thought it would. I mean - you know." She made a face and adjusted a strand of hair. "Growing up in Zuni - you think a lot about food. I used to make up feasts in my head when I was younger. Like, this is what I would eat for my birthday. And this is what I'd serve at my wedding. And this would be what I'd cook for a funeral. I kind of went over the top last night, huh?"

"I didn't notice any funeral food," Charlotte replied and East laughed as she pulled her entire hair loose and attacked it with a hair brush as though it had personally offended her.

"Well, thank god for that. Demetrius - you know, the master of the hunt - he was teasing me about it." East rolled her eyes, but her expression was just that bit too neutral for her to be entirely unaware of what effect her words would have on Charlotte. "Said I'd poison someone. Like he's one to talk. You ever eaten his cooking?"

"No."

"Good. Don't." East pinned up her hair and lined her eyes with grey kohl with the hand of someone who did not care. "There's no point dressing up too nice," she said offhandedly to Charlotte at the other girl's expression. "Not if I'm going to be standing next to you. Have you seen yourself in the mirror?"

"Strangely enough, I caught a glimpse."

"You'll set the place on fire. He won't be able to keep his eyes off you," East said simply. Charlotte had to look away.

She stood up and found the necklace she had wanted to wear - Grace had pressed it into her hand at the last moment before she left. "I was going to wear it if I ever got the chance to meet the prince," she had said grudgingly to her older sister. "But I suppose you can have it."

"Could you-"

"No problem," East said and, stepping forward, took the necklace from Charlotte as the smaller girl held up her hair out of the way. "Cohen?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for being my friend," East said, and Charlotte let her hair fall back into place as East tied a fan to her wrist and spun it like a baton.

She was younger, Charlotte realisd suddenly. She could be no older than seventeen. And she was being used by Demetrius as much as Charlotte was, even if East put on a better show about it.

"Come on," Charlotte told her shadow. "Let's go set the place on fire."


	18. Chapter 18

Here's something you should know about Islana Loss:

Islana was a filthy liar, and she knew it.

But Islana was also a good maid, and she knew that too.

And a good maid can get her hands on anything, especially when she has the son of a queen like America backing her up.

* * *

There was silence.

Charlotte couldn't breathe. What had once been butterflies in her stomach had become boa constrictors, crawling up her windpipe, crushing her lungs, winding around her tongue until it was as heavy as lead as she stared at the slender figure below.

East couldn't know. Only two people in the world knew that awful, fatal mistake that Charlotte had made all those long months ago, on that pale lightless day.

Only two people could ever know.

East's eyes skated over Charlotte, and there was victory there, not hidden at all, apparent for anyone who cared to look.

But no one cared. The cameras were on Charlotte.

How? How? Howhowhowhowhowhow?

Why were the cameras on her? Who had told them to put the cameras on her? Who else knew as well as East? Who?

She had to get out of here.

She stood, well, she went to stand, really, went to stand and Eden, Eden of all people, reached up and grabbed her sleeve and pulled her down again, firmly, her hand warm just above the corsage that Charlotte still wore. "Smile," she hissed, her voice soft as the boa constrictor in Charlotte's chest. "Smile."

Charlotte did so, mechanically, stretching her muscles, contorting her features into an approximation.

The whispers were rustling along the tiers of girls like wind through wheat, but Eden's grip and gracious smile did not falter until the cameras had bored of Charlotte and switched back to East, who was dabbing at her dark eyes – not because of tears, crocodiles or otherwise, but because her thick, smoky eyeliner and heavy mascara threatened to melt underneath the heat of Clementine's glare from her seat beside Lani.

"It must be difficult for you to talk about," Gavril said sympathetically, searching theatrically in his pocket for a tissue.

"I lost everything." East's voice quivered, like a reverberating string, although her eyes did not change. "My mother, my father, my childhood friends and all I had known. I was left with nothing."

"It must have been traumatic."

East shrugged, laughed – an unpleasant, sharp sound that made Evangeline Jones-Fitzwilliams grit her teeth. "What is one massacre among a thousand?" She lowered her hands again, her expression solidifying into steel.

"What is – yes, yes, yes, indeed, I suppose, yes." He murmured the words, but Charlotte had never seen Gavril so flustered before.

Charlotte tore her eyes away from the poised, smug profile of the Eight to glance at Julien, who looked deep in thought, his brow furrowed. After only a moment, he glanced up and met Charlotte's gaze, his bright eyes so piercing that she had to look away before she began to beg for his forgiveness right then and there. He continued to watch her, his gaze scorching her neck as she strove to pretend she didn't know, she didn't know, she didn't know that absolutely everyone was looking, staring, wondering.

"The Illeans attacked their own people," Gavril said slowly, his eyes darting rapidly back and forth between the king and East, who looked every inch a king herself. King Maxon looked as though a fire had been lit in his bones for the first time in years as he gestured silently and rapidly for the feed to be cut, and when that failed, resorted to far less silent orders that the cameras stubbornly refused to obey.

"Children died that day." East's gaze did not waver. "You have no idea… When we heard the plans, we looked to the sky and we believed we would be saved."

"And instead –"

"Instead," East agreed, and that was that, and next thing Charlotte knew, East was standing up and shaking Gavril's hand once more and he was thanking her for her time, and then she was sitting down in her tiered seat again and Gavril was looking between his cue cards and the king, who looked as though he could not understand why the feed to Illea had not yet been cut, why they were still broadcasting live to the world even as East accused them of mass murder, of killing their own people.

"We're going," Gavril said, striving to seem as though nothing were amiss. "To take a short break. Please enjoy some of these short Report segments on the Winter Ball, and when you return, we'll be interviewing the rest of these lovely ladies on their Selection hopes!"

A pan across the tiered seats, and everyone's expressions:

Eden's eyes could have been jewels for how they shone under the harsh lights of the Report, and that same light sent tiny crystal fractals of colour spiralling across the tiny tiara she wore settled in her spun-gold hair. Her face was set into a smile, carved as surely as East's neutral expression, as though it were effortless and eternal – only the current of tension that kept her hand tight around Charlotte's forearm bespoke her anxiety.

Lani's eyebrows were raised, as though she were unsure what to think, and she was. It seemed strange that this was one of the only times the cameras had focused on her - she was probably the most beautiful girl that evening, not due to her maid's skilful make-up or the beautiful dress she wore but merely due to the look of contentment and joy that had settled over her shoulders like a mantle, flushing her cheeks and adding a glitter to her eyes, and which had unravelled rapidly as the interview in front of them wore on.

Adalyn seemed to glow, dressed as she was all in gold and silver and bronze and rose, with a beautiful comb in her hair and a confident tilt to her chin that said she didn't care that Anabel Moritz beside her wore a gold chain and a sweet, adoring smile that she aimed squarely towards Julien. So absorbed were they in their silent rivalry and adoration that they seemed unaware of what East had said.

Jesse could have been carved from stone.

Clementine should have been, by all rights, on fire – she was alight, her bones and her blood and her eyes, and her hair matched that night, so that when she looked at East with that suspicion and anger, Charlotte almost flinched reflexively.

Eilinora looked almost calculating, as though she were attempting to figure something complicated out of the scenario in front of her – what to believe, who to side with, what she ought to do with this new secret that was everyone's now. She looked shrewder than anyone had ever seen her, a new side to the Selection's golden girl, like a queen on the chessboard with a clean straight line in front of her. And it was surprising, more than Charlotte could, in her half-comatose mind, articulate, to see Kelley sharing a similar expression – like she was preparing to strike, and just waiting to see when and where and how.

Rosalyn was covering her mouth, looking horrified – but then, she had never known war, never known what monsters war made of people, never known what a girl as small and vicious as East would have behind her and what she would face if she was sent home. For Rosalyn, all pale and rose and pretty, war and battle existed only so far as it was narrated by an Angeles accent and followed immediately by a weather report that promised sunny skies.

Maya was silent, her eyes wide, watching not the screens but the chaos backstage as the Report managers scrambled to cut the feed, to figure out what was going on and why East was saying the things she was saying if she valued her head where it was. But then, that was what Maya was like – she saw what was happening behind the cameras because she was so used to being on that side of the lens, and she hardly seemed to notice her own appearance on-screen.

A final shot of a stricken Charlotte.

Finally, mercifully, the screens went black.

* * *

Sometimes he dreamed of it, at night. The Midnight Riots, hell on earth, a time when the entire world had seemed to burn and he was certain that there was no use in continuing onwards – what point was it, fighting to see who would control a wasteland?

He had seen good men fall, and he had seen good women fall, and he had fallen himself, more times than he cared to admit.

He had been young, even for a soldier, maybe seventeen or eighteen, too young for war, but he went anyway, with his gun and his tags and with the death of the girl he had wanted to love heavy on his conscience, heart heavy with a duty he had never wanted.

So when East Smith began to speak and the king began to order an end to the broadcast, Demetrius shook his head with the certainty of authority, and gestured with his vodka bottle that the Report be allowed continue, a confident smile on his face.

"By order," he said. "Of the prince."

* * *

King Maxon was dying.

Everyone knew it, but Queen America refused to admit it aloud, even on nights like these, when he stumbled on his way off the stage and retreated to his chambers immediately after the conclusion, leaving his advisors and ministers to debate exactly what had happened and what their response should be.

The Report had not, it soon emerged, been broadcasted in its entirety. East's scandalous comments had been shown only on the studio's screens – everywhere else in Illea, she had been replaced at first mention of the planes by pre-filmed interviews with Prince Julien about the Winter Ball and how it had affected his views of each Selected girl.

Only on the studio screens?

What was the point of that?

On whose orders?

"Has someone," Counsel Patel suggested dryly, adjusting the cuff of her suit jacket. "Thought of asking the prince himself?"

Counsels West and Fitzwilliams exchanged glances, looking almost incredulous.

"You think," Counsel West said, almost offendingly slowly. "That he sabotaged his own broadcast?"

"Sabotaged," Counsel Trent repeated, eyebrow raised. "This was no sabotage, I'm afraid. It was merely… creative editing." A glance at Fitzwilliams and Counsel Quinn, the latter of whom leaned closer as though she could discern some new information from proximity alone, her eyebrows knitted as sharply as a scalpel.

Counsel Patel nodded. "I think," she said. "That _someone_ wanted some person in that room – be it one of the Selected, one of the royal family – to hear what East had to say. This was something personal. Some Selected trying to get ahead, perhaps?"

"Some Selected," Fitzwilliams disagreed. "Would not know about that… fiasco."

"Soldier Cohen still believes he covered it up, doesn't he?"

"He did a good job," Counsel Trent pointed out. "We would never have found out about it if it weren't for Mr. Loss."

Mr. Loss, the enigma, the man who was neither counsel nor bodyguard but allowed nonetheless to remain within the Throne Room while national matters were discussed, inclined his head. "He wished to protect his daughter. Who could blame him?"

"It's not him I blame." Counsel Gbadamosi said sternly, her arms folded and her dark eyes troubled. "How did the Eight know of it? It was difficult enough for us to find out, and I doubt any from this room dared speak…" She raised an eyebrow and scanned the room, as though daring someone to admit to guilt.

The room was silent.

"I trust," Counsel Fitzwilliams said sternly, taking his accustomed role of leadership in the absence of both Maxon and Julien, despite Quinn's silent bridling under his authority. "That you will get to the bottom of it, Loss. And if it requires our attention…"

"Then," Counsel Patel said, clasping her hands in front of her and offering Fitzwilliams a passive smile. "We shall deal with it. Personally, I think this is a lot of worrying over nothing. If you'll excuse me…" She stood and Counsels Hsu and Saunders moved hastily to avoid her as she stepped around the table. "I think we'd all like to attend to our own duties rather than worry about some technical difficulties."

Counsel Saunders looked as though she agreed, but would rather die before admitting so.

Not one person in the room mentioned the king-shaped elephant in the room, and perhaps that was for the best.

* * *

Somewhere, in the depths of the castle, a clock was chiming midnight and Charlotte couldn't bring herself to follow its sound deeper into the structure, towards the room where the Selected girls were meant to be celebrating a successful Report and looking forward to the future.

After all, the Report had hardly been a success.

She began to walk, more to do something than with any particular destination.

Her father had hidden that information, though, hadn't he? Buried it deep within records that would never be read, falsified any information that might have made a trail for someone to follow to Charlotte. She could still remember him coming to visit her in her dorm, where she slept with all of the other air force fliers when they were on duty and needed to sleep before they went out again.

He had found her maybe fifteen minutes after she had seen the news report and realised what had happened and realised what it had been, what she had done – the rebel camp that was not a rebel camp at all, the rebel camp that had been a refugee camp, the refugee camp that was burning – and he had sat at the edge of the bed where she lay, stricken and silent, until she looked up at him.

"This," he had said calmly. "Never happened."

And he had ensured that it was so.

But East. She knew. She knew it had happened and how and by who.

_How_?

Who had told her, who had Charlotte told? She had pushed that deep, deep within her, and every time it bubbled up within her, she just pushed it even deeper than the last time except except except.

The rebel attack on the palace.

Charlotte still got flashbacks of that day, the day she had made a mistake no one should ever make, flashbacks that turned her limbs to lead and her blood to ice, and she experienced them when she was in danger, when she was faced with the prospect of causing even one more death.

The rebel attack at the palace.

Had she said something?

And Demetrius had been there. Demetrius had pulled her out and Demetrius had held her close and Demetrius had been silent as she cried and whispered, and Demetrius knew.

He had to.

Demetrius had told East.

She would have laughed, if she found any humour in the situation.

She _did_ laugh when she reached the corner of the corridor and turned it to find herself walking straight into a certain dark-haired master of the hunt.

* * *

"They get all the attention."

Maya didn't like to be that kind of girl, the one who sought attention and the limelight, but she could not help but focus on the tiny cluster of girls with her lone good eye, watching as Eden flicked her hair and Lani frowned in thought and Charlotte seemed to shrink smaller and smaller into herself, as though she didn't know why she was still there.

Anabel nodded, a silent agreement of everything else neither girl had dared say – surely they were just as interesting, just as kind and intelligent and beautiful as any of those? But not even Julien's gold chain around her throat did anything to settle the anxiety that threatened to tear her heart apart as she worried at her lower lip with her teeth. He hadn't even asked her on a date yet. They had danced at the Winter's Ball – intermittently. He had spoken to her in the great hall – briefly. He had smiled at her at dinner – fleetingly.

Eden still refused to say what exactly they had gotten up to the previous evening, and that worried Anabel more than anything.

"I suppose…" She hesitated before she said anything, because to say it and admit their faults was to say that it was true, that she was uninteresting and dull and plain. "They're… not interesting, but you know. Dramatic."

Maya looked at her. "Dramatic?"

"You know." Anabel leaned against the counter, folded her arms and shrugged, almost awkwardly, unbelieving that she was actually saying this aloud. "Dramatic. Look at them. Eden's all… all sultry and seductive and everything. Charlotte's a war hero with all this trauma and secrets. East has her Cinderella story, all her angst and trauma, and she's like a human hedgehog. Clementine is sassy and sarcastic and wild. Lani is – well, she's Lani. The cameras adore her."

"I guess." Maya nodded. "It makes sense."

Anabel sighed. "So what can we do?"

Maya frowned, arching an eyebrow, half-smiling. "So what are you suggesting? We… make the drama?"

Anabel laughed. "You think it would work?"

"It wouldn't not work, if that's what you mean."

"What exactly do you mean by drama, though?"

The other girl smiled, and looked over Anabel's dress with a hawk's eye. "Please, please, please," she said. "Apologise to your maids for me." And then, without any further ado, Maya Hartwick picked up her glass of red wine and threw its contents in Anabel's face sans ceremony.

Anabel shrieked, gasped, looked down as the cream silk of her dress stained like blood down the middle.

The room went silent.

All the cameras swivelled to Anabel and Maya.

Maya had to hide a smile. "How dare you?" she hissed, just loud enough for the microphones to pick up, and stormed past her friend towards the stairs.

Anabel was left entirely speechless and slightly tempted to laugh out loud at the surrealist nature of it all.

"Well," the editor said after a moment, a smile on her face. "I guess we have our hook."

* * *

It was about two hours after the Report, when the girls had retreated to their rooms, that they found the invitations.

Five of them all, one for each of the five girls chosen, printed on white-cream paper and wrapped in golden ribbons.

And even though they should have been happy, each girl felt the apprehension grow in the pit of their stomach, because no one had survived a date with the prince yet.

* * *

_"Go ahead."_

_The only light that filtered into the tiny, filthy room was grimy, somehow, and it peered through the cracks between the galvanised sheets of scrap metal that made a boundary between here and there, between the screams out there and the sobs in here, between the glassy stares in here and the blood that spilt out there._

_The girl stepped closer. The line of the blade was cold, and it raised the blood to the skin's surface, so that a thin scar of pink traced across the man's throat, as though she had cut it already. _

_She should have been crying. Tear tracks no longer marked her face. People got tired of weeping after a while._

_"Don't."_

_"You believe in this, right?"_

_Her voice was angry. "Don't!"_

_"Go ahead. Go ahead!"_

_He grabbed her arm, her forearm, and held the knife even closer to his neck, pressed it close so that she could feel the blood rushing underneath, how easy it would be._

_"How are you meant to kill the king," he said, quietly, cruelly. "When you can't even kill your own…"_

_He didn't get to finish the sentence. _

_She left his corpse by the wall and walked away a few minutes before it came collapsing down and buried her father's body beneath a heap of scrap metal. Over this came the rioters and the soldiers and rebels, and the world kept spinning and burning and on, and the girl threw her knife away into the lake so that she wouldn't have to remember what she was. _


	19. Chapter 19

Oh, poor Angrec.

Sometimes, when sleep was slow to come to Islana, she wondered about her old friend, the poor girl who had died before she could know her, and she had wondered at the point behind it, what purpose her death had served, and whether anyone who had had a hand in it could not sleep.

Sometimes, when there was little work to be done and Islana found herself idle, she told herself that Angrec had been saved, that Julien had ensured that she would be spirited away and that somewhere, the poor girl was still singing those sweet rebel songs.

Sometimes, when Islana rose early and found the world quiet, she thought about the grave that must surely exist, somewhere, and where it might be, and sometimes she grew angry at herself for wondering and sometimes she grew angry at _them_ for not saying where the poor girl could be found.

Oh, poor Angrec.

* * *

It was, Julien suspected, the first direct conversation he had had with Demetrius since the Winter Ball and Katherin's elimination and his order that his brother drop whatever other girls he was stringing along - an order which he had followed as well as he usually did, which was not at all, and which made Julien wonder whether he would be forced into action - to punish one of the girls for Demetrius' transgressions seemed ridiculous but then, the girls knew the rules, and it was not alone Demetrius' sin. Since then, they had communicated through the medium of an increasingly irritated Islana, who, as much as she disliked Julien, seemed to detest entirely being in Demetrius' company, even if it was only to set up the broadcast.

Therefore, he was surprised when, as the Report finished and everyone began to disperse and Julien began to think about what he had learned by observing the girls, Demetrius waved him over, gesturing with the bottle in his hand.

"Have you," Demetrius said without preamble, leaning his head back against the wall. "Got rid of the eight yet?"

"No," Julien replied. "And I probably won't, with how often you're asking. If you want her for yourself -"

Demetrius laughed, and Julien raised an eyebrow.

"No," Demetrius said. "No, I'm not..." He collected himself, smiled. "_We_," he corrected himself. "Are not like that."

"You'll get her executed," Julien warned.

"East is more than capable of getting herself executed," Demetrius said shortly. "And there's nothing in the rule-book that says the girls can't be friends with other guys, right?"

"I've never known you to be just a _friend_ to a pretty girl," Julien said, and felt uncomfortably like he was echoing himself.

Demetrius looked thoughtful, tapping the mouth of the vodka bottle against his jaw, as he raised an eyebrow at Julien. "Oh," he said, and smiled. "You think she's pretty?"

* * *

The whirring of the projector broke the silence so suddenly that Jesse could not help but look up from the newspapers spread over her lap and stare at the screen in front of her, curiosity and duty warring in her heart as she watched the images flicker into life. At first, she mistook them for black and white, so washed out and faded did the people and their background appear.

She had never seen these photos before – these were the realities that were banned from broadcast, exiled to a box at the back of the royal library in the castle no one visited anymore. To show these on the Report would have been tantamount to treason; it would mean telling the world, telling all of Illea, that the war was being lost, and lost badly.

The library was quiet at this kind of late hour, after the Report was finished and everyone had retreated to their respective bedrooms, leaving a kind of hush to settle over the building. It was late, Jesse guessed, maybe past three in the morning, and she still couldn't believe the way things seemed to work out for her: other girls got dates from the prince, while she got a job. She wasn't complaining – she was a soldier and she did her duty, whatever that may be. A part of her was glad she could have this kind of interaction with Julien, one where she could actually show her talents rather than dressing up nicely and pretending to enjoy picnicking.

She sat forward in her chair and focused on the pictures.

The old woman crouching against the worn stub of what may have once been a support wall for her house, rubbing blood-stained hands across her lap and peering suspiciously at the cameraman, every line of her face deep and dark. She had only three fingers on the hand closest to the camera, and looking closer, Jesse realized that the dark shadow in the background was a body, left where it had fallen and a shadowy stain where part of its head should have been. The woman had that kind of wry look on her face – a look that said, _well, what did you expect to find?_

She found the button on the projector to flick it onto the next image and there, she paused it again, moving the files she had been scanning onto the table so that she could shift forward and look at these pictures closer. She had served in New Asia, found herself in a war, and this conflict should have been nothing new to her, but for some strange reason, it was – because this was a war carefully corralled, an explosion within a snow globe, captured in a cage. She was rapidly begin to understand that the government had given Zuni up for damned – their priority had to be contain this rebellion, this anarchy, before it spilled out into the rest of the nation.

She didn't think that information would be any comfort to the small girl who was the focus of the next photograph – a small figure, maybe eleven years old or younger, with a rifle strapped to her back. She had been caught half-turned as she walked away from the camera, glancing back as though to scan for danger, trailing maybe four metres behind two others who were as dirty and dishevelled as she was, who must have been her family – a woman with a shawl over her head, shoulders curved against the wind, holding the hand of a younger brother or sister. Ahead of them, the path collided with the horizon, nothing but a worn trail through dust and debris, mountains rising on either side. What caught Jesse was the despondence in this girl's face – she did not expect to be saved, she could not dare hope – a kind of vulnerability in the way she held herself, her arms straight at her sides, one hand clenched around a small canteen and the other gripping the strap of her rifle. Her hair was as black as ink, her eyes as dark as tar.

Jesse consulted the short set of notes she had found for these images, written in the cramped hand of a military commander under pressure and dated to about seven or eight years ago. _Refugees retreat towards the Sumner mountains in an attempt to flee the onslaught of the rebels. _

The next picture was that of one of the rebels – he had hair and skin the colour of sand, and he leaned forward, his hands clasped, as though he were going to speak to the photographer from the back of the truck where he was sitting. He had pulled a scarf down from his face to do so, exposing a slight smile and a scar by his cheek. A semi-auto leaned against his thigh, and the background was obscured by the kind of thick, black, billowing smoke that hinted at the use of an accelerant – the next picture on the projector showed that the rebels were burning the portraits of the monarchy t hat hung in every governmental building, a few of them joining in by throwing torn-up books and sheets of music onto the bonfire and then leaping back, shielding their faces from the sheer heat.

The notes simply read: _The rebels take control of Shiwinnaqini._ It was dated to almost three and a half years ago.

Jesse continued on, and she did not look away from any of the destruction or chaos illustrated in front of her, not even when it was obvious that the cameraman had forced him or herself to focus on it long enough to take a photo and no longer, but found herself pausing at maybe the fortieth picture in the collection, one which the notes described as _the people of Zuni bury their dead._

The subject of the photo was a guy about Jesse's age, maybe a little bit older, photographed standing against a wall, watching a group of people mostly off-camera as they gathered around a pit in the ground too large to be used for only one body. He was dressed in a black T-shirt, black jeans and a military overcoat with the southern rebel symbol stitched into its hem – the pale indigo star-shape of a rainflower, its colours bright against its grey and black background. His hair, too, was black, inky and dishevelled; his face could have been handsome, all sharp planes and hollows, but were marked by knotted, gnarled scars that ran the length of his profile; icy grey eyes averted from the camera lens, watching the burial with an inscrutable expression – though taller than the girl at his side, he seemed somehow more fragile. It took Jesse a few seconds to realise that his left sleeve was entirely empty.

But the girl was what caught Jesse's attention. She wore a woollen cap over her hair, with a few wispy strands escaping and hanging loose – she wore a man's long army jacket, ripped and torn, and her face was smeared with grime. The butt of her rifle was just visible at her hip. Half-hidden as she was behind her friend, the photographer had clearly not been as interested in her, so that only the corner of her face was caught, out-of-focus. Her skin was darker than Jesse was used to, her hair shorter, her eyes younger and somehow colder despite the fact that she held the hand of the one-armed boy – but East Smith was easy to recognise.

She left the photo up on the projecting screen and checked the notes for any hint of a place or a date that she could track down for this photo – in the corner of the notes, it indicated that images thirty to forty five had been taken in the Zuni capital of Shiwinnaqin, in the Sumner mountains, and along the Zuni-Honduraguan border, which left Jesse with plenty of digging to find the right lists and files.

Jesse had noticed long ago that Illea's worst wars tended to be the best-organised, and that seemed to hold true here – there were lists and accounts of absolutely everything, from supplies lost to the rebels down to individual water bottles, to details of exactly the amount of fuels used in each military flight. She guessed it was because records were the one thing the military always had control over – they could not stop death. But they could record it.

There was a creaking floorboard outside the room, and Jesse went reflexively to switch off the projector and hide the files before she could force herself to pause, take a breath, and wait to see if the people outside would just pass by without so much as glancing inside – she was right, and the footsteps faded away quickly. She let out her breath, and after a moment to listen again, she continued.

One file had been dedicated to list of civilian deaths and movements – Jesse opened the manila folder to find lists of names, written in cramped handwriting and broken English on whatever scraps of paper could be found. The refugees wrote the names of their missing and their dead and their defectors in pencil, while the soldiers wrote in pen and ink, marking down whatever had been learnt about the named. The first list Jesse glanced at was covered in the names of the missing, and one name drew her eye. _Sarah Wren_ – no relation, she guessed, but it was strange to see her own name on a list such as this. There was a short description beside it, written by someone desperate to find her: _short, red hair, blue _eyes. Beside it, in neat, precise script, a soldier had written, _mass grave outside of Pescado_. There was a photo attached, and a circle drawn in red pen to indicate the relevant corpse.

Each piece of paper was dated, and the dates ended about three and a half years ago – when the rebels had overrun the city, she guessed. From her reading today and yesterday and the day before, she had figured out that the army had been pushed back further and further and further out of Zuni after that climactic event, until they had been practically forced out of the province altogether and the rebels had taken a tenuous control. Now, the army launched only the occasional offensive and defensive, looking desperately for a way back in, hemmed in as they were at the edge of the Sumner mountains. Jesse hadn't realised before just how badly the war was being lost – estimates held that maybe four hundred soldiers were still in the capital city itself, unable to take control, only able to rip the city apart a little more, and who knew how many of those were still alive? The rebels had taken dozens, hundreds, of prisoners – maybe five hundred soldiers were still trapped in the barren, traitorous Zuni mountains, still in combat. Within the province, the main problem seemed to be the rebels turning on one another, and on the civilians.

The rest of Illea still thought that this was just an uprising, easily quelled. Even the Midnight Riots had not shown them how awful things had become.

So absorbed was Jesse in these thoughts that she nearly looked past the exact piece of information she had been looking for. On another list of names of the missing in the city, each one written small and scrawled to fit in the rest, was the name _East Smith_, and next to it, an equally scrawled response in pen, in handwriting so rushed that the i's were not dotted and the t's uncrossed: _confirmed dead in explosion at_ _Hawikuh Ruins_.

And a photo was pinned to the list, showing a blood-stained face and glassy eyes in close-up, so that someone could confirm the dead girl's identity.

Jesse pulled a piece of paper closer to herself and began to write a note, explaining what she had found, for the prince.

* * *

"Bit late for you to be out, isn't it, Lady?"

His voice dripped with the kind of sarcasm and condescension that she had heard him using with all the other girls, and she didn't know why it came as a surprise that he used it with her too, but it irritated her more than she could say and she found herself pushing him away rather than stepping back herself so that she could look him in the eye – despite her heels, he was still taller.

"Care to explain what the hell you're doing?" she said, and he tilted his head a little, as though unsure as to what she was referring, dark hair falling into his eyes as he considered her.

"I was walking," he said.

Charlotte wasn't letting him get away with it this time, and she folded her arms. "You know," she said, calmly so as not to betray her irritation. "What I'm talking about. What was that about, Demetrius?"

Demetrius had appeared vaguely distracted by something behind her ear so that he didn't have to look at her directly, but when she used his name, his gaze flickered and his eyes met hers, and so quick was the movement that he seemed to have no time to guard the emotions in his eyes as he usually did – they were gone a moment later, but for a moment there was a strange blend displayed there, of regret, and loyalty, and kindness, so entirely unlike him that it unnerved Charlotte a little.

"You should ask him," Demetrius said. "Julien, I mean. I'm just following his orders, you know."

"You don't seem like the type to follow anyone's orders."

He shrugged. "I'm a changed man."

Charlotte nearly laughed at that – who had changed him, East? – and glanced away, her eyes searching as though she expected someone to be watching or a camera lying in wait. After a moment, she looked back to him. "If I asked Julien, what would he say? What's the point of… of humiliating me, of betraying me, to all of Illea? Will my sins really help East win?"

"East?"

Charlotte stared at him. "_Not_ East? Then what?"

Demetrius ran a hand through his hair. "Your secret is still safe from the provinces," was all that he said. "We cut the broadcast early, said that East broke down crying talking about her past, and to save her humiliation we went to interviews. It was just a – Julien, he gets ideas. He wanted to test you."

"Test me?"

So it hadn't been sabotage. At least, not on Demetrius' part. East had still got the upperhand on Charlotte – even if she had done so on the prince's orders.

"What was that meant to tell him?"

"How you handle such situations. He knows that you are brave, that you are generous, but he needed to know that you are also decisive, that once you have made a mistake it cannot be used against you as it was."

"It wasn't a mistake," Charlotte said, and then shook her head, because the combination of the night just passed and Demetrius' steady gaze and her own mind whirling meant that her tongue tripped over itself when that was least opportune. "No. It was a mistake. I just mean – it was so much more than _just_ a mistake. So many people died."

"And you can't bring them back," Demetrius said, and even if his voice was low, it was not too gentle – not so gentle as to imply he thought her fragile because he had never treated Charlotte as such, not even after the rebel attack at the palace when she had found herself frozen. "And you can't allow that to be used as a weapon against you, because if all of us were left with whatever we cannot atone for, we would be left hollow. I've done a lot of wrong, Charlotte –" and the fact he did not call her lady there meant more than Charlotte could entirely articulate – "And you can't take that back, you can only go forward." He shrugged. "Julien wanted to see that you could. And you handled yourself well."

Charlotte took a breath, closed her eyes, nodded, let out the breath and opened her eyes again, watching Demetrius closely. "And you were the one to tell East?"

"No one even knew I knew," Demetrius explained. "Julien has some kind of a helper in the household, a maid or an errand-boy, I don't know who exactly – " and she could tell that he was lying, but wasn't this a small lie in the scale of things? "And they got into the files."

"It's not in the files."

"Not the ones you know about."

"But you do."

A slight smile. "Why wouldn't I?"

"I don't see why the master of the hunt would need to know such things."  
It looked as though Demetrius could not help the smile that spread across his face next as he caught sight of Charlotte's expression – "You figured it out?"

"I have now."

The corner of his lip curled, in equal part respect and amusement, as he shook his head and seemed a little rueful. "Dare I ask what tipped you off?"

"You have the same eyes," Charlotte replied, which was true – although they varied in shape and shade, their eyes had that same kind of piercing quality, the kind the drew all the breath from your lungs and made you want to tell them whatever they wanted to hear. "And the same smile," she added after a moment's thought, although she had seen Demetrius smile genuinely only once and Julien twice. She didn't mean their fake smiles – the one Demetrius wielded when he was amused or being cruel, or the one that Julien used to be polite. She meant the entirely real, human smile that Demetrius had worn while he danced with East and she said something quiet to him that seemed to amuse and pain him in equal measures. She meant the sweet smile that Julien had given Adalyn at the end of their dance at the Winter Ball, and then the friendly grin that he had given Eden at the beginning of the Report as they found their seats.

Charlotte hadn't realised that neither of the princes seemed real until all of a sudden they did, and right now, Demetrius did seem real to her, in a way that Julien never had, and she was afraid to say anything that would dispel that brief illusion.

It took her a moment to realise that Demetrius was offering her his hand, and she arched her eyebrow, awaiting some explanation or something, but Demetrius just smiled at her and after only a moment, she took it, and it all seemed so very _real_ suddenly that she didn't speak as they walked down the hallway together, towards the garden, and neither did he.

* * *

_"_Two pretty boys were going away_…"_

_ The next explosion rocked the room and dust came showering down, sent the light flickering so sharply and swiftly that for a few sparse moments the entire world seemed to move in slow motion, each movement captured by the briefest flash of light so that she could see everything move slow, slow, slow. _

_"_And tear it frae gore tae gore_… _and you will bind my deadly wounds, that they may bleed no more_…"_

_At the beginning, she had tried singing above the explosions – now she just paused and waited them to be done, and waited for the worst of the alarms to quieten before she continued on._

_"_And though he's bound his deadly wounds, ah, they bled ten times more_ …"_

_ She swept up the broken glass that still littered the floor of the tiny apartment, and then swept it out again across the tiles, so that she had to do it all again, because when someone is meant to be dead, even the slightest of actions seem revolutionary._

_"_Ah, but what shall I tell to your sweetheart dear, this night when I go home_?"_

_As the next explosion lit up the horizon and blotted out the sky, Angrec turned and looked out the broken window to the sky as though she expected to see the palace's silhouette._

_"_Tell her I'm dead, and in the grave laid, and the grass is growin' green_."_

* * *

**Next chapter: Adalyn, Kelley, Evangeline, Charlotte and Anabel go on dates; there are two eliminations; secrets are revealed; clues as to the rebel insider; and the family visit begins. Don't worry – the next chapter will be much longer and will have more point-of-views in it. If the creators of those characters could PM me with any input they would like into the dates, I would be grateful!**


	20. Chapter 20

**Please forgive me, dear readers, for the inexcusable hiatus that I went on... Issues at home combined with a creative block prevented me from going near this chapter for weeks on end. As a result, it is rather short and sweet - but quite important in the grand scale of things! I hope you are all still interested and reading...**

**If your girl still remains in the Selection, please do PM me with any ideas for dates or meetings with the Prince. I am aware that the Selection has, thus far, been rather lopsided in that sense.**

**I hope you enjoy! Please review - the longer, the better!**

* * *

Islana counted every step on her way up the narrow servants staircase towards the royal quarters. It was an odd number - 97 - that meant for her first three months at the castle she had always expected them to end one step earlier or continue for one step more. It seemed such a strange number to choose, that she found herself debating the reason for it rather than allow herself to contemplate what lay ahead of her.

These stairs were narrow and the edges were splintering where six generations of servants had knocked iron-shod boots against the wood as they sprinted to and fro, hither and thicker, in service of their regents. It was almost comforting - it reminded Islana of home, of narrow staircases piled high with books to be dodged and thin corridors thronged with people no matter the time of year, all talking and shouting and laughing. This northern castle demanded reverence, and that meant a quiet, almost contemplative atmosphere that threatened to choke her even as she thought of it.

The floorboards creaked underfoot with a groan that sounded almost human as she came to the top floors where the royal family resided in carpeted, curtained rooms filled with glittering, golden trinkets and tension that could perform surgery. Islana wasn't fond of coming to these top rooms, but with more maids abandoning their posts quietly but surely, she was running a skeleton crew, even as more girls were eliminated and their maids returned to normal duty.

She kicked open the door at the top of the staircase, glad that there was no one to look at her disapprovingly for this faux pas, and ducked out into the hall. The servants' entrance looked for all the world like yet another wooden panel in the wall, like some kind of a secret door known only to the staff... and, of course, Demetrius Schreave, who had been escaping through the tunnels and up onto the castle roof for as long as Islana had known him.

No sign of Demetrius now, and he hadn't been at breakfast either. He was a strange man, stranger still since the beginning if the Selection, and though Islana harboured no love in her heart for him she hoped he wasn't trying to dig up any of the secrets best kept buried that the royal family hid from the world.

Queen America had taken defacto control of the running of Illea in the past few days, which meant that after a perfunctory nod to the Guards that stood watch outside the royal chambers, Islana was left to enter the king's room alone, feeling for all the world as though she were facing an execution rather than delivering a breakfast.

Her shoes sank into the thick carpet of the royal rooms as she stepped forward quietly and creaked open the door to the king's bedroom. He was awake - that surprised her - awake, and listless, gazing off towards the wall with all the focus of a dead man.

"Your Highness," she ventured, and his eyes flickered to her with a vivacity that almost made her take a step back. "Forgive me, for intruding..."

"Nonsense," he said firmly. "Forgive you for what, ensuring I won't starve? Don't be ridiculous."

She took a step forward, and then another - twelve in all, and then she was beside the bed and settling the tray over the blankets, her movements quick and light.

"My dear," the king said. "How long has it been since we last spoke?"

Islana said nothing. Up close, the signs of illness were apparent on the king's face; the worn lines of fret and weariness, the flush of fever across his cheeks and forehead, and the glisten of distraction in his eyes. He looked like a man possessed.

She could not remember speaking directly to him before.

"Sit," the king said, and Islana's gaze flirted about the room for some sign of someone who would know the correct etiquette for such a situation, for someone who would tell her to leave so that she could make a hasty retreat. But no such person was present, so she sank into the cushioned seat angled beside the sickbed, nearly knocking a well-thumbed book of music from the wooden arm. Her skirt creased beneath her - ordinarily, that would have bothered her.

"I am," the king said, and one shaking hand found Islana's wrist. She remembered her grandmother telling her that he had been handsome once, and traces of that quality still remained in the cut of his features, in the angle of his bones and the way his eyes filled with warmth, but he had more in common with a corpse than with his young self. "So sorry, America."

Islana opened her mouth and then shut it again, abruptly.

"It's my fault," the king said. "All of it. Oh, my dear..."

He drifted off, and stared at the wall in front of him for three long, long seconds before he spoke again, and all the while Islana sat there with a tongue of lead in her mouth, her bones frozen and her veins numb.

"The riots. The war. The death."

Islana took a deep breath.

"You have nothing to be forgiven for," the king said quietly. "A mistake borne of love is no mistake at all. And I do love him, America. I only wish he couldn't..."

He was cut off this time by a hacking cough that choked his words like thorns, a cough that sounded like he was trying to spit out a lung, and Islana hastened to lift a glass to his lips, a glass he shook away brusquely, waving one weak hand, dismissive. He took a deep breath as well, deep and steadying, as though he were drawing upon all of his strength.

Islana had never known he was this bad.

His grip on her wrist tightened, painfully. His tone was urgent now.

"My dear," he said. "Oh, my dear, America. We have lost already. We are not fighting a war; we're children trying to push back the tide with our bare hands. Listen to me. Beyond the ruins - beyond the -" Another cough. "Used against us," he said. "Selection," he said. "Like his father," he said.

"I love you, America Singer," he said.

Suddenly, he stopped talking, and Islana wasn't sure if it was ten seconds later or ten minutes later that the carpet had disappeared beneath her feet and the wallpaper had blurred as she followed the medics back up the stairs and her heart was pounding, pounding, pounding, even as she watched the royal doctor lean over the corpse and shake his head as his eyes filled up with tears and Islana felt all the air leaving her lungs as her legs lost all their strength as she folded towards the ground and it was only dear, strong Dhoka the junior guard and his arm around her waist that stopped her from hitting the ground as she watched the soldiers wheel the body from the room.

"The King is dead."

Islana could almost hear her grandmother's voice in her head as she watched King Maxon the First of Illea disappear into another room.

"The King is dead. Long live the King."

* * *

"You're not as smart as you think you are."

East tilted her head, pushed her sunglasses away from her eyes - Lani wasn't sure if she wore the sunglasses despite or because of the bleach-white snow that blanketed the grounds of the northern castle, but either way, she seemed to be using them more to keep back her hair than to actually make a fashion statement.

"Maybe," she said slowly, her Zuni accent soaking her voice like honey. "That's what I want people to think."

She gave Clementine a slight smile and then settled back again so that she lay along the park bench, her head propped against one arm and her legs hanging over the other. Lani could remember her mother mentioning that Queen America's choice of clothing had made her stand out in the Selection, because she had been the only girl to reject the dresses of the Selected. East didn't seem the type to pay attention the things like that, but she wore jeans and a sweater nonetheless, and her hair did not even look as though it had been brushed. Was she not even trying? How could she possibly be so blasé? Lani was keenly aware of the camera crew hovering at the edge of the yard, focusing on the small group of five girls, and she tried her best to act as though they were not there - Eden was positively basking in it all.

Rosalyn was picking at a wilted flower, plucking at the withered leaves as though reciting a children's rhyme, but she looked up suddenly at the girls as though something had occurred to her abruptly. "It's been a while since the last elimination, hasn't it?"

"What, three days?" Eden's eyes narrowed. No one had forgotten the eliminations of Katherin and Cleo, which had been as surprising as they had been swift. One minute, here. The next... not. And what had they done wrong? How had they misstepped? No one knew, and no one asked.

"Well, it's been a while since a proper elimination, I mean, he hasn't been on a date in... what, three, four months? How do you think he's narrowing them down?"

"He's throwing darts at little pictures of you," Clementine said sweetly. "Hanging in the back of his princely door. Blindfolded. And eliminating whichever one he hits."

"Are we quite certain it's a queen he's looking for?" Lani couldn't believe she was saying this at all, that these words were slipping past her lips. "Maybe he's not interested in princesses at all."

Rosalyn had never looked more scandalised. Clementine had to stifle a laugh.

Eden seemed particularly amused by this. "In that case, East, I dare say you have the best chance of any of us. We'll be calling you Your Highness by the end of the week."

"Best start now." The Eight shrugged, and smiled, but there was nothing there - she reminded Lani of a mannequin she had once seen hanging in a shop window, which Jackson had found intriguing and terrifying in equal measure, because he felt the eyes following him. East looked like she was nothing but cold glass and steel, watching with empty eyes, waiting for someone to pull her strings. "You know, to get used to it."

* * *

_"Where is my brother?"_

Madrigal's face was stained with tears, her hands shaking, but Counsel Hsu had to admire her - admire that despite the red colour of her skin and the way her shoulders shuddered with sobs, she did not attempt to hide her face, did not attempt to turn away. She was crying as she spoke, but her gaze was strong, her voice commanding, and she did not allow the eyes of the Counsels to deter her.

"He won't be back until this evening." Counsel Patel's shoulders were rounded with exhaustion, her face drawn and weary and pale, and like everyone else in the room, looked as though her entire world had been thrown from its spinning axis. "He and Charlotte Cohen are out of radio signal - a date in the _mountains_..."

"He takes after his father." Counsel Hsu made it sound like an insult. "As though he would listen to what we have to say regarding safety. We've sent two of the guards out to retrieve him. Eta three hours."

Madrigal sank into the cushioned seat of her chair, drawing up her hands to press the heels of her hands into her eyes.

Her father was dead.

The _king_ was dead.

"Princess Madrigal," Counsel Hsu ventured, slowly, carefully, his voice tired and perhaps less formal than it should have been - but given the circumstances he couldn't force himself to obey the etiquette required to address a member of the royal family. "You are the heir to the throne now."

"No," she said. "Julien..."

"Is the king," Fitzwilliams agreed. "And you the crown princess."

She looked at him. Her brow creased.

"The only reason that would be important," she said. "Is if you thought there was a chance something would happen to Julien."

Silence.

Hsu looked at Patel. Patel looked at Fitzwilliams. Fitzwilliams looked at Trent, who looked anywhere but Madrigal.

Silence.

Madrigal's eyes narrowed. She leaned forward in her seat.

"Who," she said. "Murdered my father?"

* * *

"Mr. Loss."

"Lady Wren."

Jesse almost sighed at the sound of wretched title, but managed to hold herself back from rolling her eyes or exhaling exasperatedly. It wouldn't do to behave in such an undignified manner before someone as strange - but obviously important - as the enigmatic Mr. Loss.

She still didn't know who he was, what role he played, but it was an important one. Some sort of Minister for Intelligence? With his black suit and bland, ordinary features, he seemed like the spies you saw in the old films - the ones that used umbrellas with poison tips and jumped out of helicopters.

She didn't dislike him, but she didn't think he was the type of person she could ever trust.

"As requested," Jesse said, and withdrew the sheaf of papers from her pocket, her hand unshaking as she extended her arm towards the dark-suited man.

She was silent as he took them, and glanced at the top paragraph; silent as he flicked through the first few pages; silent as he raised his eyes to meet hers.

"I hope," Jesse said, her voice even. "That you're not going to leave me in the dark. Must we fear zombies as well as rebels, Mr. Loss? Because I'm afraid the Service of Illea did not prepare me for that particular eventuality."

He did not smile.

"The Eight," Jesse said. "Is she a threat?"

It was hard to imagine tiny, delicate East as a physical threat, even with her sly eyes and smirks and the way she spoke as though she were rationing out her words, picking lies out from between her teeth with a sharp tounge. Certainly not as a threat to Jesse, whose soft lifestyle at the castle had done nothing to rot her lean muscles or soften the way she stood like a soldier awaiting inspection.

But she waited for an answer nonetheless.

"The Eight," Mr. Loss replied. "Is a smokescreen."

Jesse frowned.

"A distraction," she said. "Covering fire."

"There's a rat in our midst, Soldier Wren. But it isn't East Smith."

"_She_ isn't East Smith."

"Does it matter what she calls herself?"

"It does to me." Jesse shrugged, tilted her head. "I don't like," she said. "Mysteries."

Mr. Loss nodded.

"I don't believe there was anything sinister intended by her choice of adopted names," he said. "Perhaps Smith - the real Smith - had refugee papers, had a medical pass, issued in her name. It wouldn't have been any use to her dead."

"There's more to it than that, and you know it."

"No fool you."

He put the papers into his jacket and nodded curtly. The hall they had met in was narrow, all grey stone and cold air hanging between them and pale light spilling across the ground, and Loss' shadow stretched long and narrow and flickering as he turned to leave.

"I hope," Jesse said, the words spilling from her lips before she could stop it. "That our deal is still in place." Her voice was wry, sardonic - but the undercurrent of suspicion belied her true interest.

Mr. Loss smiled for the first time since she had met him.

"You will be part of the Elite," he replied, seeming amused. "You have my word that you will remain until then."

"And your friend?"

"Provided the prince doesn't take against her," Mr. Loss said. "I will ensure that the council does not attempt to eliminate her until she is a part of the Elite."

"Do you promise?"

"Never."

* * *

There was a shriek, only vaguely human, and then Lani was sprinting across the parapet and throwing her arms around her father and laughing between dry sobs of joy. She hadn't realised how much she had missed him, missed seeing his broad smile and sun-darkened sun, until he was in front of her again and smelling of hard work and of the sea and of the jasmine they grew in their house.

She was one of nine Selected girls running to greet their loved ones, but she ran fastest, across the tiled patio. A small part of her recognised the beauty of the scene, the way the camera crews had framed this moment like the ending of a melancholic film - the sun was going down over the mountains, staining the sky red and gold and orange like a fire had been set beyond the horizon; the girls and their families, mere silhouettes against the sky, the sky - the sky was a slate grey, the lawn beyond the castle a dull green, which made the jewel-tone dresses of the Selected stand out even more.

She had worked so hard on her makeup and her hair and her clothes for this visit, this visit that she had been looking forward to for so many days and weeks, since it had first been announced, but none of it mattered a damn whit in that beautiful, crystalline moment.

"Don't cry, Lani," Hani murmured kindly, his voice suspiciously thick. "We're on television, remember?"

Lani choked out a laugh as she pulled away again and wiped at her eyes. "Right," she said quietly, her smile threatening to outshine the sun itself. "I remember. Although..." Now she placed a single finger to her lower lip in thought, tilting her head and frowning. "I thought you said Kalea and Lahela were coming with you, Dad? I'm sorry to miss them..."

The twins were suitably outraged at this oversight, and Lahela jumped up and down, her shiny new dress shimmering like the sea. "Lani," she said. "We're _here_!"

"No," Lani said. "My sisters were very, very short. And neither of you are short. You two are, in fact, quite tall. So, you see..."

She was unable to continue this conceit for very long, because Kalea interrupted, her voice bubbling with glee, her hair bouncing. "Lani!" she said sombrely, fixing her sister with a solemn gaze. "You. Look. Like a _princess_."

Lani crouched down and put a finger to her lips. "Shhhhhh," she whispered. "Don't jinx it."

* * *

And if anyone noticed, at the end of the day, that Kelley was nowhere to be seen, well, no one said anything.

Another elimination.

* * *

She had been on her balcony, leaning against the railing with her dark hair spilling on either side of her face, the sunset painting her face with rossa cotta and gold and blood, and enjoying the last of the day's warmth on her face. Below her, she could see the Selected girls spilling out across the patio to greet their family, their exuberance threatening to burst from them as something tenable, all smiles and shrieks and song.

East had to smile. It was kind of adorable - not that you'd catch her admitting that to anybody else.

There was a rap on her door, less a knock than just a single clip, and she turned to stare at the door as though she could divine who stood behind it by gaze alone.

Was a time she wouldn't have answered a door without a lead pipe in her hand and a knife in her boot.

"Yeah," she said, and turned away from the sky. "Coming."

She was wearing only a thin camisole and her favourite pair of jeans that had seen better days maybe five years ago, so she took the time to pull a hoody from her bed and pull it on as she walked across the room - she though it might have belonged to her older brother, once, and certainly it was several sizes too large for her. It was comforting, that; made her feel like home. Everything here _fit_; everything was nice and pretty and matching, new and clean and fitting.

And at home, well, everything was too big, too small, held together by scrapmetal and prayers. She thought she liked that better.

She unbolted the door, and then unlocked it, and was surprised to see Demetrius standing there when the door swung open.

He had been crying.

"He's dead," he said.

"Demetrius," East said, and could say nothing else. "No."

She knew why he came to her and not Charlotte, but she didn't say a word as he moved forward and wrapped his arms around her waist and pressed his face in to her shoulder and all she could do was hug him back, and listen to him sob and shake as though his bones were threatening to shudder from his skeleton.

Charlotte was strong, but Demetrius was weak, and Charlotte wouldn't, couldn't understand that, not like East did - East, who was a liar; East, who was a coward; East, who was weak, who knew what weakness felt like.

Sometimes there was nothing you could do but break down.

East, who found herself pulling Demetrius in close to her, holding on to him tightly, and closing her eyes as she pressed her face into his hair while they listened to the laughs and shouts of the Selection outside drift towards the sky in that careless manner that joy had.


	21. Chapter 21

"Oh, Izzy!"

It was sweet Qalu that Islana heard first, her Waverly accent lilting, and sweet Qalu that Islana saw first; her red, red mouth was pulled into the horrific ever-smiling scar-grimace that would be the maid's sole prize from the Selection, even as those just like her left with money and dresses and thrones. It was true what had been said about Qalu all those months ago, when the wound was fresh and bloody - she had never needed help smiling, but now her smile was an ugly, mutilated thing.

And Islana thought she would cry with happiness when she saw it. She didn't like people to call her Izzy, but in that moment she was glad for it, glad for the concern and affection in which the diminutive was mired. The king was dead.

And with Qalu, the others - pale Reesa who moved like her nerves were sparking, and sultry-eyed Calli who had limbs of glass, and Jess with her steady gaze and steady hands, and thorny, hot-headed Jen, who wore her apron curled around her fist like brass knuckles made of cloth.

And still more and yet more, all of those girls whose shadows had become like Islana's own, who were invisible girls too and could not ever be beautiful no matter how beautiful they were.

The maids.

So often Islana forgot that although Angrec had been her first friend here, she had not been her last.

She straightened herself from where she had sat, listless and purposefully unthinking, at an empty table in an empty kitchen, and she wiped at her dry eyes with the edge of her sleeve - a faux pas, and one no good maid would ever be caught committing, but in that moment on that day with all things considered it did not seem, to Islana, so dreadfully important. The king was dead.

"Girls," she began, as she stood up, sliding her chair back with a scream. She faltered. Again. "Girls," she said,and then Jen moved forward and enveloped her in a hug and Islana lost her voice to whispering, shuddering shock once more as she felt the other girl's arms wrap around her and heard the whispered, "I'm so sorry," and remembered that the king was dead, the king was dead, the king was dead and she had seen him die.

They drew back from another, and Islana faced the girls and their questioning, querying eyes.

"What was it like?" Petra was the only one brave enough to ask.

"He just stopped," she said, and that was true. "He just... ceased." And that was true too.

Islana had seen men die before, but death had always seemed a violent thing, a vulture with talons of bone that tore the heart from the living and stole the breath from the dying. Rebel attacks had never caused anyone to just... cease. Rebel attacks killed, and left bloody deaths behind.

Even at home, when Islana had seen a man overcome by a - she didn't know what, a heart attack or a brain aneurysm or a stroke - even then it had been violent in its movements, that death. The man had swayed and pitched and fallen into Islana's father's arms and had drawn a two last great shuddering breaths as he died, like there were marbles rattling in his lungs.

"He just stopped," she said again.

The next few minutes were lost to the scent of cloth and muted perfume and the haze of hair as the girls in their dozens crowded together to hug and whisper and support one another, a mess of people and eyes and limbs and kindness, all black and white uniforms and shining shoes, and Islana thought that any one of these maids, these girls, were worth ten times the Selected, all of them.

If Julien was to chose a queen, he could do a lot worse than kind Qalu or sensible Olivia or passionate Jen.

Or poor, sweet Angrec, whose death had not been gentle.

Calli poured the tea, and broke the news, after the first rush of comfort had come to an end like a tide breaking over the sand. Her back was straight, her eyes averted, as she expertly aimed for the teacups. She had been one of Demetrius' distractions before the Selection began, but now the prince was busy seducing Selected Threes, and Islana thought Calli was all the stronger for it. She had a keen ear for gossip and rumours - all good maids did.

"There's whispers," Calli said, and Islana stared down at her scarred, scarred hands and flexed them silently and wondered. The king was dead.

"Whispers," Angie repeated, and the word was echoed by Litta and Reesa and Sarah and others, until it gradually dissipated into the silence of the kitchen. "Whispers?"

"Murder," Islana said. Her voice was hoarse - she had spent it all on prayers. "They're whispering of treason and deceit and murder. Right?"

Calli pressed her lips together. "Right," she said, and Jen swore and cracked her teacup in her hand.

"Them," she said, and there was no question of who she meant.

"Them?"

"They wouldn't dare."

"Do you really think they'd be Selected if..."

"But why?"

"Forget why. How?" said one, maybe Sarah or Talia or Petra, near the furnace.

"Poison," guessed Yareñe, who was Honduraguan and a Five by birth, and therefore by nature prone to flights of fantasy no matter how improbable. Her slender, pianist fingers drew circles around the rim of her teacup as though trying to whittle a song from its china edge.

"Poison," Qalu whispered. "The food..."

"So not them," Islana said. "Us."

Silence crackled in the room and Islana stared at the tiny ripples in the glassy surface of her tea, and knew that it had not been any of the maids. She would rather go to her death than believe that kind of treachery from her girls - and they were her girls.

Even if they had done, she thought, they'd have the decency to tell her about it afterwards.

Islana was silent, as were the others, until she heard the clicking clickclackclack of boots drawing near and she looked up to the door to see two guards standing, almost awkwardly but unmistakeable in their air. They were waiting - expectantly.

She knew them, as she knew everyone in the palace - Dhoka and Harrison, low in ranking at the garrison, one handsome and one weather-worn, one old and one young, both kind-hearted in their own stoic, unsmiling way.

"Islana Loss," Harrison said. His voice cracked. The king was dead. "Please. Come with us."

Islana rose uncertainly. She stared at them.

"I don't understand," she said, and said no more.

"Iz," Dhoka said quietly. He raised his eyes from the floor to meet her gaze. She could remember seeing love reflected in those eyes. The king was dead. "Come on."

The eyes of the other maids burned into her back, but they said nothing as Islana was led away.

The king was still dead.

* * *

"You don't have any pictures up here. Of your family."

It wasn't a question, but it came as quietly as one, carried on the merest exhale of breath in the silence and the dark and she stared at the ceiling and felt his hair against hers while she rolled her answer across her tongue, measured and yet curt.

"No."

"The other girls do."

"How many of the other girls' bedrooms have you seen?"

East sat up and looked at Demetrius, watched the shadows of the dying sun playing chase across the sharp bones of his face. Shadowed as they were in dark rings of grief and tiredness, his dark eyes were closed - she liked him better that way. When he couldn't see her.

"Are you jealous?"

Oh, he tried to make it mocking, mischievous, but the exhaustion caught at the edges of his words and dragged them down so that it almost sounded sincere.

She didn't like to hear him sound sincere. Demetrius was only sincere when the situation was bad.

She said, "Charlotte's my friend."

And there it was - the murmur of a hum escaping from the corners of an arrogant mouth, the movement of the thinnest of paper-thin skin over his throat where his heart juddered out a pulse, the slightest shudder of eyelashes as though he were seeing something she could not.

One liar recognises another.

"You don't have friends."

"Nor do you. Or you wouldn't be here. You'd have gone to them."

She drew her legs up under herself, equal parts cat and girl, and leaned her head back against the wall.

The first thing she had done in this room - after throwing open the balcony doors, of course, so that she was not parted for long from the sky - was push the king-sized four-poster silk-sheeted bed into the comer. It was less exposed that way, she thought, although she rarely slept in this bed anyway and although it did mean that it could become a little cramped at times such as this, when Demetrius lay across the bed and she sat out the head of it, and she could feel his breath as he inhaled and exhaled.

"Aren't you my friend, Eight?"

She shuddered out a laugh. "Quit calling me that. I'm a Three now, yeah?"

She knew he would smile before he did.

"Are you going to be a teacher, then, Smith?"

"I could be a scientist," she said. "A librarian. A lecturer."

The last one was said in the hushed tones of the reverent, but she couldn't keep her gunpowder laugh back for long, and he chuckled with her.

She stared at the ceiling as the changing shapes of the gloom marked the last oozings of the hours passing.

"Shit," Demetrius said, and she looked down to see him press the heel of his hands to his eyes. "I wish I could -" And he left the end of his sentence unspoken, but she knew anyway.

"When my mother died," East said, slowly. "My little sister cried for twelve days."

"I didn't know you had a sister."

"I don't. I was trying to make you feel better."

His smile was weak. Sweet. Real.

"You're doing a good job."

East shrugged. This wasn't what she did. If she was at home - if it had been Sario or Brenin or Jonath in his position - she knew what she would have done. She would have taken her machete and told him to take his, and they would have waited until dark, they would have gone out, more wolf than human, and they would have-

Ah, but she was Selected now.

The Selection had never mattered to her less.

"I don't have a sister," she admitted into the silence.

"You have a brother."

"More than one."

"Aren't they awful?"

She said, "While they're breathing."

He looked at her. "You like your secrets."

It was true. Getting facts from East was pulling teeth from a chicken. "I don't have many," she said. "They're not worth much. So I protect them."

"Did your mother die? Was that part true?"

"Yes," she said. "That part was true."

"How?"

A simple question without a simple answer.

"Some people can't take it," she said. "At home. Sometimes - it's constant, and they just can't keep their hearts beating. The hunger. The weariness. The fear, all the time. Not knowing. Or, sometimes knowing. If they get you alone..." She shrugged. "I think it was the hunger," she said. "That got my mother. And knowing it wasn't going to end, not any time soon."

"I knew a boy like that."

"Yeah?" she said.

"He saw it," he said. "In his dreams."

"Yeah," she said.

She lightly touched his hair. Sometimes she forgot he had been a soldier. Now she remembered.

"I had to bury her," she said. Quietly. He would understand. "There were mass graves, but I - you know, otherwise, they got left in the streets, all piled up until someone found enough gazlin to burn them. You know. Couldn't let that happen, right? She was my mother."

"Didn't anyone help you?"

Jonath had.

"No," she said. "No one helped me."

He shut his eyes again. She took a deep breath, and tried, really tried, to encapsulate everything she felt into the three words that followed - her understanding, her shock, her affection for him and her sincere wish that it didn't matter so much to him. How easy, she thought, if he didn't care.

"I'm sorry, Dem."

"I know," he said, and his hand found hers.

She was silent.

"I can't," he said. "I shouldn't. It isn't mine to -" And he fell again into that hesitant silence that meant he knew what he wanted to say but not how he wanted to say it. "It isn't mine," he said. "This grief."

"He was your father."

"He was the king," Demetrius said. "That should be reason enough to mourn. But it isn't."

She sighed, and it rattled to her bones. "Mm."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be." She slid down again so that he was lying next to him, close enough to touch but sensible enough not to as her hand slipped from his, the sleeves of her oversized hoody trailing past her fingertips to graze his waist. "You're my friend, aren't you? And this is what friends are for."

Mocking, teasing, testing.

"You don't have friends."

"Mm. I've noticed."

She settled her cheek on his shoulder. She stared at the wall. She saw the king on the back of her lids whenever she closed her eyes, so she just stared.

"Were you ever in love?"

Who was he thinking of? Angrec? The girl with dark hair and even darker eyes, the girl whose picture he kept even after she was nothing but bones in the ground? Or someone else? Or no one at all, the phantom of what could and should but would never be?

She did not lie to him. "Once. A long time ago."

"What happened?"

"I killed him."

She could feel him breathing, and that reassured her, more than anything, more than her own breath in her lungs or the blood in her veins, that she was alive, alive, alive, still, unbelievably alive. Hadn't that always been the way?

This couldn't last. This would not last.

Storms were coming.

"I'm quite fond of you," she murmured quietly and wasn't sure who she was speaking to or why, only that Demetrius' smile made her feel like she had accomplished something.

"Now," she said, tiredly, pressing her eyes against the sharp bones of his shoulder in lieu of rest. "You should probably get the fuck out of my room. I need to choose a funeral dress."

"I'm sure," he said, sleepily. "You have plenty."

"Why do you think I need to choose?" She smiled. "I have a black dress for every star in the sky," East said. "And, your highness, I've worn them all."

"What a black widow you are. I used to think," Demetrius said. "That you had a heart of gold hidden deep inside of you, East."

"No such thing." She felt sleep grip her and draw her down. "Heart of thorns, maybe."

"Heart of ice," he agreed, and she wasn't sure who fell asleep first, he or she, but was only aware that she was warm, she was not afraid, and she did not dream.

* * *

"Ow."

"Shut up," Charlotte said, and Julien looked so surprised at the way that she had spoken to him that he didn't even seem to notice the pain as she pressed the iodine patch to his forehead once more, the blood soaking slowly through the gauze.

She nearly swallowed her tongue in her own shock. When had she become so brave - so bold, so stupid - as to speak against the prince? Not that this was her first violation of the rules.

After last night - and she had to almost close her eyes just thinking of it, shaking her head, cursing her name and his - it was difficult to think of anything she could do to make her situation more precarious. This was thin ice, the thinnest - a knife's edge between survival in the Selection and...

And what? Execution?

Julien was smiling at her. She tried to focus, on him, on what he was saying.

"You're in a better mood," he said.

That was true. She hadn't been exactly forthcoming with the prince, despite their spending the entire morning and afternoon alone, together, sledding in the mountains behind the northern castle. When she had arrived down to the stables after breakfast that morning, she hadn't been able to stifle a little smile at the sight of the wooden sledges, one named Kota, the other named Kenna, nor at the image of composed, regal Julien with a knitted cap covering his fair hair, looking almost as cold and miserable as Charlotte felt at the thought of spending nearly eight hours with him.

She had felt almost glad to see him flip the sled - not just once, not just twice, but thrice; she herself had gone head-over-heels into the snow more than five times. It had been on that final occasion, when she had opened her eyes and saw white, and breathed in snowflakes and ice, that she had also seen blood. It was strange - she had thought that someone as sheltered as a prince would have fainted at a splinter, but Julien barely seemed to notice the gash in his forehead until she had pointed it out to him.

Now he was watching her with an expression that was not quite solemn.

"What?" Charlotte said.

He shrugged. "Forgive me?"

He managed to sound genuine without sounding plaintive, contrite without sounding pitiable, and she marvelled at that - what wondrous manipulation it was. Demetrius (and here he was again, in her thoughts even when he was out of her presence) seemed to have only one setting, one persona, and she had seen plenty of it - he had one mask, and wore it well. But Julien had a dozen, a hundred dozen, and changed them in the space of a heartbeat.

"What is there to forgive?" she said, and handed him the needle to hold for her as she peeled back the gauze to look at the wound.

It took her a second to notice the weary expression on his face, as though he were saying "you know well".

"The broadcast," she said, and he sighed.

"You can't have any secrets if you're to win this Selection," he said, and his tone was quiet and confidential, as though he expected the heavens to smite him down for even saying so. "Anything that can be used against you will be used against you."

"Everyone has secrets," Charlotte said, immediately, biting out the words like venom.

"Not everyone treats them as secrets," Julien said, and she wondered how he would react if she stood up in the dining hall that evening and declared one of his. Would he sit there, smiling, as though she were uttering common knowledge, and act as though the secret had never been such?

"I'm sorry," Julien said. "For hurting you. It was never my intention, Charlotte."

The cabin was cold, the air crisp with that serene purity that seemed to flake off the mountains like gold dust.

"I don't think your intentions matter," she replied, slowly.

"No," he said. "But I'm still sorry."

Silence reigned for a frozen moment as she pulled the iodine patch away and sat back, a few precious inches between them, and watched his face. She didn't even try to hide her open, obvious scrutiny of his expression.

She had to know.

"I'll forgive you if you answer my question," she said, and Julien almost laughed at the mercenary nature of the statement - Charlotte wasn't bothering to manipulate or twist or wheedle. She was just asking.

"For your clemency," he said. "I'll tell you anything."

He was lying.

"Do I have a chance?" Charlotte asked, and the question hung between them on a noose, swaying back and forth and threatening to change everything with a single syllable of an answer. Because if she didn't have a chance - if she didn't have a chance -

She wouldn't have to try. As awful, as forbidden, as that thought was, it was there, solid and real. She wouldn't have to fight this Selection, trying to win a heart she didn't want and a throne she didn't deserve, she could just be. She could go home.

And that small, traitorous part of her that seemed to make all of the worst, self-destructive decisions whispered that Demetrius wouldn't be quite so unreachable if she was no longer one of his brother's Selected.

And if she did, then she would fight. Set aside all else, and she would fight, and she would win. She would have to.

"You wouldn't be here," Julien said softly. "If you didn't."

Charlotte looked at him, met his eyes, and saw no mistruth there.

"Really?" She didn't mean to say it, but the word slipped from her lips without permission, rogue syllables hissing into the chilled air.

"Really," he said and she shook her head.

"Why?" she whispered, and he seemed to understand without her saying more, although she did. "How often have you spoken to me, Julien? You danced with me once - and didn't speak to me - this is our first date - and we haven't spoken until now - you don't know me. You can't know me. Why are you keeping me and sending away so many good, kind, generous girls?"

She watched his face for the answer, unsure if she could trust the one he spoke.

"Is it because of -" And she stopped herself, and shook her head again, dispelling the thought like so many cobwebs.

"Because you're Charlotte Cohen, the war hero?" He smiled, fractionally, almost unnoticeable. "At first. You were popular. You would make an excellent queen."

"At first?"

His eyes seemed faraway as he nodded. "At first. And then someone... talked sense into me. Someone I should listen to more often. My life is too short to spend it with someone I don't love. And I don't love anyone in the Selection. But I realised..." His voice dropped low, quiet. "I realised that I could. Love you, I mean. Or any of the others. That's why you're here. Still here. And I suppose that's unfair of me, because I've decided that I could, and I have no clue if you could."

"I could," Charlotte said, and she absolutely meant it.

Julien smiled.

"But you can't use me," she said. "You can't - you can't manipulate me like that. During the Report, I mean. Julien, my secrets matter to me. The girl I've become - she wouldn't have done those things, and I hate the way people look at me when they realise who I was, and it's as though who I am now doesn't matter a bit. I've cried and I've bled and I've done everything I can to put those awful things behind me, but if you keep dredging them up to use them as daggers against me..."

"I truly am," he said. "Sorry."

"Yeah," she said, and there was steel in her voice now.

The rebels, Demetrius, the war, everything else - it could wait. Charlotte Cohen was here to win the Selection and that was what she was going to do.

She almost took Julien's hand, but her fingers faltered above his, uncertain. "Thank you," she said, and sounded like she meant it.

Lights exploded against the far wall, and she turned to see twin beams sweep through the frosted window of the cabin and come to a focus against the far wall. She and Julien share a confused look before Julien slid down from where he had sat on the lone table and crossed to the door. There were two guards outside, stepping out from a large car, and between them stood one of the counsel, a small, dark-skinned woman, and Charlotte didn't need to see Julien's face to see that this could not possibly be good news. The guard nearest to the cabin took his cap from his head and clasped it to his chest as he walked closer, slowly, and the counsel spread her hands wide and spoke softly.

Julien shook his head. Charlotte stood and walked closer, words coming into focus as she approached.

"...coronation," Counsel Patel said. "The Selection..."

Charlotte came to Julien's side. Her hand found hers. He clung to her like a drowning man.

"The king is dead," the counsel was saying. Above her, the clouds were dissipating into snowflakes, a blizzard on the horizon encroaching fast and frozen, and Charlotte was certain that any tears she allowed would crystallise on her skin, so she kept her gaze clear and only the falter of her heart confirmed that she was not dreaming. "Long live the king."

King Julien was looking beyond her, to the snow-bound grounds of the castle far below them, and Charlotte was not certain what he was contemplating, only that the king was dead.

* * *

THE SELECTED

Evangeline Jones-Fitzwilliams

Eden Lamarie

Eilinora Winslow

Jesse Wren

Clementine Georges

Lani Watson

East Smith

Adalyn Larson

Anabel Moritz

Maya Hartwick

Rosalyn Akerman

Charlotte Cohen


	22. Chapter 22

There were ninety seven steps on the servant's staircase, and there were ninety seven bricks in the wall of Islana's cell, and she found that such an odd coincidence that she paused her pacing awhile and recounted them, left to right and bottom to top, as though to check her arithmetic and ensure she hadn't been mistaken. She couldn't say why the detail meant so much to her, only that it did; she had counted everything else in the twelve hours or more she had spent in this cell.

She had counted the bars of the gate that closed her off from fresh air, and she had counted the birds that flitted across the narrow gap of the window set high into the wall, and she had counted Dhoka's breaths in a second as the guard kept watch outside the cell, as though they feared the maid might stage an escape.

They. Who were they? They were the queen and the prince and the princesses, closing ranks now, fearful, skittish, animals wounded and afraid. Targets in their own home, their father and husband and king murdered in his sickbed and one of the shadows blamed. One of the maids. Barely furniture.

Were her girls okay? Islana had thought this thought a dozen times already. Were the other maids under suspicion, or just her? She hoped she was alone. She didn't want to imagine poor, twitching Reesa or quiet, shy Qalu being interrogated in one of these bare brick cells, while she stood here and paced and lay on the bunk and tried not to see the king's face on her eyelids.

She couldn't remember the first time she had seen Maxon – surely it had been on the Report, or maybe in one of her grandmother's old photographs of King Clarkson's court, in the days before America, before the Midnight Riots and the war in the south that never, ever ended. But she could remember meeting him for the first time, when she was new to the service and nervous and apprehensive that every request was a trick in disguise, tailored to reveal some fault, some fatal flaw, of hers that would render her unsuitable for palace service. He had seemed kind, she remembered thinking, his hands more calloused than a king's should have been, and his eyes, even then, had seemed tired. But he had seemed kind. The new maids had formed a line for inspection by the king and queen, when the royal couple were still young and idealistic and believed the castes could be undone, unwritten, and Maxon had shaken the hand of every new employee and thanked them – for their service, for their loyalty, for their futures.

"Thank you," the dead man had said, and Islana realized she had lost count of the bricks again.

Had it really been twelve hours already? How could that be? And yet it was.

There was a sound like wood against stone, and Islana half-turned towards the gate of the cell as shadows and footsteps advanced down the corridor. Dhoka, not-quite-asleep at his post, his eyes too troubled to allow rest, rose as Harrison, the most senior guard of the western garrison, approached with his cap in hand and said, "He's coming now."

Islana didn't have to ask who he was, or why he was coming.

The only fitting punishment for regicide was immediate execution.

"Dhoka," she said, her voice less wheedling than it was urgent, as she moved to the door and her hands found the bars and she leaned forward, trying to catch the guard's eye. How long had she known him? He should trust her. "Dhoka, please. It wasn't me. You have to deal him –"

She turned to Harrison. She remembered her grandmother telling her about the day Harrison had joined the garrison first, a boy shorter than a painted half-door, weighing less than a hay-bale, who would come around to the kitchens after dinner looking for scraps and grinning with two or three teeth missing. He was old now – grizzled – older than the king had been – and there was something like pity in his eyes.

"Harrison," Islana said. "Please."

"The king approaches," Harrison said, and they turned to look.

When had Islana seen Julien last? It couldn't have been the day of the Report, that was too long ago, but all that Islana could think was that the boy had grown old in the space of a few hours. No gray in his hair yet, but his walk was that of a king – of a man stooped with the weight of a nation on his shoulders.

Islana's father had always said you didn't need to give a man concrete shoes or put stones in his pockets to drown him. Put a crown on his head and he'll disappear into the depths without a sound or a trace. Julien looked like he was drowning now.

Julien looked at Islana and Islana looked back. She was not defiant.

"Your Highness," she said, and though her face was dirty from crying and her hands raw from hitting walls and stone floors, she took her skirts in her hands and dropped into a curtsey as deep and steady as any she would have given in the ballroom.

Julien's expression was unreadable. "This is the accused?"

"She delivered the breakfast," Harrison said, his voice a guttural rumble softened only by his rural Midton accent that never faded, however long he stayed in Angeles. "And the dinner, the night before. The night before that, as well."

The king shook his head. Snow still dusted his collar, and a narrow gash above his eyebrow worried Islana more than she would have ever admitted, even to herself. An injury – an attack? Had Julien been targeted as well, by whoever had murdered Maxon?

Why kill the king if another would take his place?

Islana watched Julien. She was his maid. She was his spy. Would that even matter? Could that even matter? His father was dead, his nation thrown into chaos. He was king now, king before he had ever wanted to be, and she – she was just Islana.

"She's Islana," King Julien said. "She's my friend."

* * *

"This has gone on long enough," said America, and she was absolutely right.

Madrigal risked a glance at her brother. Since his return from the dungeons where they had kept Islana for questioning, he had been almost entirely silent, more watchful than even he normally was, and even now he was gazing out the window as his mother spoke. He hadn't spoken, she thought again, and wondered at that a little.

"The Selection must end," Mr. Loss agreed, and the lines of Julien's body tensed, stark and sudden.

"It's too soon," he said softly.

"The nation needs to know that you are decisive," America said. "This Selection has gone on for months, Julien. Your father is dead, and that makes you king. And a king needs a queen. Quickly."

Madrigal had never heard her mother sound so bitter.

"To end the Selection so soon after Maxon's passing will seem hasty," Mr. Loss counseled gently, his expression as unreadable as always. Madrigal had known this man since she was young, but she still had little idea what he actually did in the palace.

"Haste is better than chaos," America snapped, and Madrigal skewed a look at Julien, who could have been deaf and blind for all the attention he was paying to the conversation at hand. Light traced patterns across his face, all sharp relief and dark, moving shadows.

"I agree," Mr. Loss said calmly.

Madrigal remembered all over again that Islana was his daughter, and wondered what the man was thinking as he gazed at the new widow and the new king with unreadable eyes. His hands were clasped behind his back; he held himself with the crisp precision of a military man.

"Make it gradual," Mr. Loss said. "One at a time. But allow no delay. Form the Elite as soon as you can. You'll need your choice soon."

"So," Madrigal said. She leaned forward resting her forearms on her knees as she focused on her brother. "Who are you going to eliminate next?"

Julien turned his head and looked at her, a blind man seeing for the first time.

"I," he said, and paused. He shook his head and stood up, so hastily he nearly upended the chair he was sitting on. "I'm going to get some fresh air," he said sharply, and with his hands in his pockets he left the room. America watched him go, and Madrigal was glad to see her mother did not cry.

* * *

Julien felt like an old man as he descended the steps of the palace and came to a stop mid-way.

Charlotte had disappeared into the embrace of her mother, who was as short as she was, and who looked even tinier next to her imposing husband. Jesse was being taken to task by a man, grizzled and grey, who had worn his army uniform to an otherwise informal event, and stood with the posture of a general.

If Julien had known how happy this would have made all of the Selected, he would have organized it much, much sooner.

Of course, it wasn't all. Nine girls ran to embrace families that wept over their sudden reappearance, while one girl sat on the castle steps and looked towards the horizon as though she wanted to rip the sun from the sky.

And against his best instincts, Julien went to sit with her.

"Do you do it on purpose?"

She looked at him almost incredulously. "Whatever it is," she said languidly. "I'm sure the answer is yes."

"Stand out in a crowd." Julien shrugged. "When everyone else is happy, you seem to insist on being sad."

"It does," East said mildly. "Make me stand out, though, doesn't it?"

"I guess it does."

Six months, maybe more, into the Selection and this was the first conversation Julien could remember having with the tiny girl, all dark hair and sharp angles. She won't give two words where one would serve and she had been more than happy to do as she was ordered for the Report, but maybe she wouldn't have been so agreeable if the Report hadn't suited her purposes. Julien couldn't remember this girl ever looking anything but scheming, but now she just seemed withdrawn, like she thought some kind of monster lurked beneath the prince's skin and she intended to slay it.

"How is the Selection going for you?" she asked suddenly, breaking Julien from his thoughts.

"How do you think?"

"I think there's still plenty of deadwood drifting."

"Yourself included?"

"Of course." She smiled, slow and lazy. "But I'd ask that I be the last of the deadwood you send burning. The food is just too damn good here."

Julien had to bite his tongue to prevent himself inquiring after the food that waited for her at home after the elimination – nonexistent, he imagined.

Her eyes darted - flickering across the windows of the palace. Julien followed her gaze, and caught sight of Demetrius, watching the girls and their families just as Julien and East were. He looked sadder than Julien could remember him looking in a long time.

"You seemed to have a good time on your date today."

"My pride isn't the only thing that was bruised," Julien remarked, and she chuckled.

"I saw - didn't look pretty."

Julien was beginning to fall into the strange rhythm this girl kept in her conversations, and found himself struggling less with the Zuni accent that made all of the consonants boneless and all of the vowels sharp as a pointy stick. Speaking to East was difficult; it required focus; it distracted Julien from the dead king lying in the palace and the ominous fate looming in front of him.

"You don't think I'm pretty?" Julien said, and he noticed again that her eyes never seemed to match the rest of her. When she smiled, her eyes sharpened.

"Pretty as a prince comes, Your Highness. _Not_ as pretty as me, of course."

"Surprisingly," Julien said. "I can live with that."

She laughed. The sunset seemed to have become caught in her eyes, and she stretched out her limbs, long and languid.

"_You think she's pretty_?" Demetrius had said, but in that moment, East wasn't pretty. She was chaotic and wild and exciting, and she had lived a thousand lives, and she would live another thousand, and she looked at him, her dark eyes all a glitter, and that more than anything, more than the way her lips curved into a bow, more than the way Demetrius was watching them now as though he had been shot, more than the way that Angrec pulsed against Julien's eyelids, was what made him lean forward and kiss her, his thumb grazing her cheekbone as she leaned into him too, and then it was just quiet and the world fell away and Julien realized just how impossible this Selection would be.

* * *

"They're searching the rooms!"

The call went out across the girls, although it was utterly impossible to tell who had shouted first - it filtered down the crowds of the Selected like a wave coming to a final crashing crescendo on the beach, and Lani realised as the girls looked at each other with horror just how many of them were keeping secrets.

"The fan," Lani whispered, and her brother stared at her in confusion as she shoved away from the table and, gathering her skirts in her hands, joined the desperate sprint for the door. Eden was in the lead - it was clear to Lani just who had the biggest secrets to hide judging by who ran fastest.

She was breathless by the time they reached the landing, and was horrified to see that the guards had already reached her room, and were in the process of turning it upside down with the tenacity of a bulldog with a bone between its jaws. Dhoka, one of the more handsome guards that Lani had seen, the guard that only ever had eyes for Islana Loss, had turned the bed over and torn a large gash in the fabric at its base with the sharp edge of his knife.

"Nothing," he called, and another of the guards that Lani thought might have been called Callun, emerged from behind the door, shaking his head. Lani caught sigh of the Italian fan lying on the ground behind him, tossed carelessly aside once they had realised it wasn't a weapon. Something ached behind her ribs to see it so recklessly treated,something so beautiful, and - she was surprised to realise - so precious to her.

But they had no reason to realise that, and that relieved her to no end. It could have been a trinket from home; it could have been a gift from the prince. They didn't care.

They didn't, couldn't, know about her.

They couldn't.

Clementine appeared at Lani's elbow. She had meandered slowly up from the dinner table; she had only an older brother visiting her, a tall man with sand-coloured hair and an infectious grin, who appeared surprisingly normal but for having the umber-haired Clementine for a sister. Her calm demeanour suggested she had nothing to protect, but there was a manic spark to her eyes nonetheless.

"Have they found anything?" she said.

"Not yet," Eden said on the other side, Lani's strange, perfect friend, but even that was interrupted by a rustle of whispering further down the corridor - from the corner where East had her isolated room, opposite to where Maya and Anabel had their rooms.

Anabel was leaning against the door of her room, her arms folded; Eilinora, beside her, trying to peer into the chaos that was Maya's bedroom.

"What did they find?" Adalyn asked, her eyes wide with worry for these girls she called both her friends and her rivals.

"I don't," Rosalyn began, and then the oldest guard, Harrison, emerged from the room, holding up a hand. It took Lani a long, breathless moment to see that it was a slender silver chain, a necklace, with a flower pendant attached to the end of it.

A rainflower. Small, perfectly shaped, a tiny star with tiny, angular petals.

The rebels' most iconic emblem. Even Lani knew that. Worn with pride in Honduragua and Zuni, and treated with revulsion everywhere else. East had got rainflowers in her bouquet - Lani hadn't believed Julien to be capable of such a low, awful insult.

Maya had a rainflower necklace.

Harrison turned his head slowly, and caught Maya in his gaze with pale, searing eyes. Maya blanched; she shook, her eyes bright with fear.

Maya's family hadn't come to visit her.

Why was that?

Why was that?

"No," she began, her voice high and reedy, and then the guards grabbed her by the arms and were pulling her away before she could protest her innocence. "No!"

* * *

They found out later, of course. But they didn't know then. Only afterwards - when they found themselves at the edge of the world - did they find out.

They couldn't have blamed Maya on the necklace alone. How could that be proof alone?

But Anabel. The girl Maya believed to be her friend. The one she was closest to in all of the Selection. The one with whom she had cooked up the scheme to win attention, to win love and approval. Her "rival", and friend.

Anabel told them. Anabel lied.

That's how Maya died.

* * *

"Do you even know how to tie a tie," she said, and it wasn't a question, and she didn't wait for an answer before she went up on her toes and yanked it from his neck like it was a noose.

"You're nervous," Demetrius said, and East Smith did not meet his eyes.

She looped the tie in her hands, once, twice, three times and shrugged. It was a boneless motion, but lacked the devil-may-care air she sought. She looked tired. He imagined she had looked like this burying her mother - her dark hair drawn back from her face, her frame small beneath the oversized jacket that covered her dress, her eyes smoky and shadowed from lack of sleep, her face drawn and pale.

"He's choosing the Elite," she said quietly.

"Julien?"

She nodded. There was a defensiveness to the way she held herself. A defiance.

"You've survived this long," he said, almost immediately.

"I've outstayed my welcome," she said. Resigned. "He's going to send me home."

Home? The word wasn't right, and he almost told her so. Home for East was Zuni, and Zuni was a war zone, filled with the starving and the dying and those who starved and those who killed. The Midnight Riots played themselves out night after night in Zuni while they remained distant nightmares to the rest of Illea, and East would walk straight back into it after the Selection. What did it matter if she was a Two now? A dead girl was a dead girl, no matter the caste.

"You don't know that," he said, and she nodded, but they were both lying to themselves.

She put his tie around his neck again and said, "I heard he has to get rid of two of us by tomorrow."

Two. Demetrius thought back on the list and tried not to think of Charlotte. Which would Julien pick? If not East, then who? The model he had never spoken to, perhaps, Eilinora, or the small, soft-spoken optimist, Adalyn. The soldier with the steely gaze, Jesse, or the vapid, unthinking Rosalyn.

"I've been telling him to get rid of you from the start," he said, and East laughed.

"Why doesn't that surprise me? You're sure in a hurry to see me in the ground."

He shook his head.

"No. I just know you hate to lose control over yourself. Over your own destiny."

Her hands stilled on his collar, the rings dripping from her fingers cool against the skin of his throat

"I've been thinking - you don't need to be a Selected to stay in the palace. We could find you a place, a job."

The words came slow and uncertain, as though they had to be ripped from his tongue. He certainly wasn't giving them up willingly.

She paused, long and languid and her eyes were very nearly - but not quite - hopeful. "Gonna hide me in your room, Demsha? Hope no-one notices I'm there?"

"Shine my shoes once in a while," he said. "I'll let you stay for free."

Her smile faded.

"I mean it," he said before she could ask. "I do."

"That," East said. "Is what worries me."

* * *

The funeral was beautiful, and it was as hasty as hasty could be.

The Selected stood to one side of the grave, resplendent in all of the colours that were and ever would be, and their family lined the tiers behind them, looking nervous and uncertain of themselves - to have arrived on the very day a king died could not be an auspicious start.

There had even been whispers amongst the maids that the families were to be sent home instantly, but Eden's perfectly poised mother and Jesse's ragged, intimidating father had put a stop to those.

"We aren't," Zayn Wren had said firmly. "Going anywhere."

The royal family stood on the other side of the grave, dressed in the customary blue. Even though Charlotte had set her mind firmly on Julien and the Selection, it still hurt some small part of her to see Demetrius standing with the guards rather than with his siblings, his head bowed.

America Schreave sang in public for the first time in over fifteen years, and she sang over her husband's grave - a heartrending, keening lament of love lost to chance and misfortune that had Evangeline turning her head into Clementine's shoulder to hide the shine and redness of her eyes.

Each of the Selected held a rose, and at the princess Madrigal's nod, they moved to the maw of the grave and let them drop, one after another. Adalyn led them, and not even her optimistic view of the world could lend this event a rose-tinted hue. She tried to catch Julien's eye as she returned to her seat, but he was looking beyond them, beyond it all, to the prison-grid clouds that streaked across the sky like fire.

The Selected had been asked to make a speech, and it had been crafted in the main by Eilinora, who was graceful and elegant and kind in her words as well as her manner. She had put pen to paper and tried - and failed - to encapsulate a man that none of them had known, and yet all of them had grown up with. A man that had ruled their nation and welcomed them into his home. Julien's father. The dead king.

Eden had delivered the speech, of course. On that there could be no dissuasion. A role she was born to, and if anyone noticed that the tears dropping from her eyes were borne of effort rather than emotion, no one uttered a word.

As they lowered the coffin into the ground, Jesse walked away from Charlotte and Lani, and took a rifle from one of the guards to join in the salute - another reminder that the skin of a lady was not one she would ever, ever, be comfortable in. She looked lost standing amongst the Selected - amongst the soldiers she knew her place, and it steadied the ragtime beat of her heart.

This was not the funeral they would see on the television a week later, the flower-strewn coffin set on a gilded carriage pulled by snow-white horses, followed by a procession of half a million or more. That coffin would be empty, that funeral choreographed. This - this was fast and uncertain and real.

The Selected and the relatives filed away then, and it was time for Maxon's family to say goodbye.

* * *

Julien hadn't expected Demetrius to cry, and he hadn't been surprised. Madrigal's eyes had been glassy for the entirety of the service, and there had been a curious break to America's voice as she spoke, but Demetrius may as well have been carved of stone as he stood by the grave, hands in his pockets, head bowed as he looked down into the darkness and said good-bye.

"You chose the Elite," his older brother said, almost mockingly, and Julien nodded.

"The choice was really made for me," he said. "Maya Hartwick is in the dungeons and Anabel Moritz requested to go home. The Elite chose themselves, really."

The amusement on Demetrius' face faded as Julien continued:

"But I didn't make those decisions," Julien said steadily. "They were made for me. And Mother is correct. I've been taking too long with this Selection. Wasting time. So I sent two of the others home as well. Two that I chose."

"Who?" Madrigal asked. Her words hung, frozen, in the air. Truth be told, Julien had almost forgotten she was in the room.

"Rosalyn Ackerman and East Smith," he said calmly. "Carolina and Zuni. Their planes departed about forty minutes ago."

For a moment he thought Demetrius would say something - break the whiskey glass in his hand - anything. He had that scalpel-sharp look in his eye, and Julien remembered all over again that he was capable of cruelty. But after a moment, Demetrius raised his glass as though in mocking toast. He smiled. When didn't he?

"Excellent choices, brother," he said. "Didn't I tell you from the beginning to get rid of the Eight?"

* * *

THE ELITE

Evangeline Jones-Fitzwilliams

Eden Lamarie

Eilinora Winslow

Jesse Wren

Clementine Georges

Lani Watson

Adalyn Larson

Charlotte Cohen


	23. Chapter 23

Islana had not slept. Not since Julien had brought her to his room and left again - fifteen hours or more, by her reckoning. It was light again, outside, a new sunrise. Some maids had brought her food earlier in the grey, pre-dawn morning but she couldn't bring herself to eat. They had been forbidden to speak to her - Yasmin and Qalu had brought the trays up, and they had turned their faces from her, averting their eyes like they had done something shameful by failing to protect her. Islana had taken Qalu's hand as the other girl turned to leave, trying to let her know that Islana was just glad her girls were okay, and Qalu had given her a half-smile, shaky and ready, and Islana hadn't understood why until Yasmin had managed to press a note into her hand before they left.

The note was in Reesa's chickenscratch handwriting, and it was not good news.

Too many questions crowded her head, but she had no one to give her voice to. Not yet.

Being in Julien's room, alone, like this was so strangely, uncomfortably intimate. This wasn't like cleaning his chambers as a maid - this felt different. Like he thought she was worth trusting. And that, more than anything else, worried her.

The handle of the door rattled. Islana, curled in an armchair by the window, bolted up to a sitting position.

"Your highness," she told the new king as soon as she caught sight of him. "We need to talk."

* * *

Eilinora couldn't remember ever having spoken to Clementine Georges before, but the next morning as she slipped downstairs towards the Women's Room, she caught sight of the green-haired Elite at the glass door to the garden, her face tilted towards the sun and her eyes shut, as though she were soaking in the light as it bled slowly over the horizon. She seemed to hear Eilinora approaching, but did not move until the other girl had come to stand beside her.

"So this is it," Clementine said, and Eilinora could only nod.

"Eight left," she said softly, the words sounding too harsh, too boastful, in the serenity of an early dawn. "We're nearly there."

Clementine nodded. Her arms rested on the railing overlooking the garden; her eyes were pensive. "Closer and closer," she mused. "I didn't think I would get this far."

"Me neither." Eilinora shook her head at the thought of how she had got there - she couldn't help but feel pity for those who had been expelled, those who had left and - "poor Maya," she said aloud, and Clementine glanced at her with a quirked eyebrow.

"She murdered the king," she said bluntly.

Eilinora bit her lip. "She was a photographer," she said lamely. "I just - I couldn't sleep. Imagining her in the dungeons like that."

"If you're going to feel sorry for anyone," Clementine said. "Feel sorry for the dead man."

That cut the words from Eilinora's throat before she could breathe them. The dead man. The king. She nodded mutely, and Clementine looked a little contrite for having spoken so harshly, but continued nonetheless with a shrug.

"Or the dead girl. You know, I overheard two guards talking this morning. I couldn't sleep, so I got up and went for a walk... They're saying that East's plane got taken."

Eilinora blinked. "What?"

"Landed outside Zuni," Clementine said darkly. "They couldn't land inside the provincial borders without being shot down. And the rebels swarmed it. They had machetes and machine guns. The guards are still trying to recover all the... pieces."

Eilinora felt herself deflate against the railings. Watching the sunrise, she realised abruptly that the sky felt very far away, and the world seemed large and sharp around her. The palace had that effect - it made everything seem far away, as though perceived through a bubble. She hadn't even considered what could happen to a girl after she left the Selection, and abruptly she found herself wondering about so many of the others - Katherin, Kalyana, Clio, Trinidad, all of them. Had they died since leaving the Selection? Had they married? What was going on, out there in the world, just out of view behind the cold-capped mountains and the high stone walls of the castle?

So sudden. Clementine's words still hung in the air. Swarmed. Machetes. Pieces.

East's story lay unfinished, a sentence without an ending, a word missing letters. She had been, and now she no longer was. She wondered who would bury the Eight.

"Poor Smith," she said quietly, and Clementine nodded.

"You're going to think I'm a bad person for saying this," she said, and looked at Eilinora with a steady, steely gaze. "But we're here, and they're out there. And here and now is what matters. Eilinora, I'm not going to allow myself to care about out there." She gestured to the sky, and Eilinora covertly checked for Report cameras, but found none. In fact, she had seen none since the king's death had been announced. "And you shouldn't either. I have a throne to win. You have a throne to lose. There's eight of us left in this, and things are going to move quickly now. Don't blink."

Eilinora didn't have a reply to that, but she didn't need one - footsteps approaching them interrupted the conversation and she half-turned to see Charlotte - no, not Charlotte, younger - Grace Cohen, the sister of one of the Elites, approach from the staircase, looking a little uncertain.

"I may have got lost," she said.

Eilinora cast Clementine a last, questioning look, but the fiery girl had already turned her face back towards the sun. Eilinora shook her head and looked back to Grace and she smiled and offered an arm.

"Trust me, you aren't the only one," she said with a bright expression and a single thought - Clementine was right, in her own awful way. This, here and now, was real. The performance was all. "I'll show you to the Women's Room, okay? I don't expect they'll be serving breakfast this early, but sometimes you can convince one of the maids to bring you something from the kitchens... I must ask, where did you get that bracelet? It's absolutely beautiful!"

* * *

"One man can make all of the difference," Demetrius said. "Isn't that one of the lies we tell low-caste children to convince them to enlist?"

He was speaking, but he could barely even hear his own words. The men around him were grim; their brows contracted in woe, in grief unknown to the rest of the world. The plane had been taken. Two guards had been on board.

Their friends, their allies,their brothers.

Many of these guards had seen active duty in the south or in New Asia. Demetrius had fought alongside them - in the Midnight Riots, when he was young and still raw, still angry and eager to fight and to die, it had been Harrison that had held him back and cautioned him, Harrison who grabbed him by the collar and hauled him forward, Harrison who had taught him how to live for another day, another battle.

Harrison, who had died alongside Friedrick and East.

East.

"It isn't a lie," he said. "Harrison and Friedrick, they made that difference."

No one had asked Demetrius to come down here and speak to these men, but he had anyway. Because they deserved to be spoken to. Because they bled and cried like anyone else. They spent their lives protecting Demetrius' family, and when they died, another would be brought in to take their place. Julien would never have admitted it, but he saw them as expendable. One guard, one soldier, was like another.

To be fair, Demetrius had seen the Selection that way once as well. But that had been before Charlotte, and before East.

East.

It always came back to her, didn't it? Like she was a thorn under his skin, his heart drummed a tattoo against his ribs to the sound of that name-that-was-not-a-name. East, East, East, his dead girl, his Eight, his friend.

Demetrius Schreave had lost his king and his only friend between one sunset and the next, and every fibre of his being wanted not to care, but he did.

The Eight had been his friend. Selfish, cowardly, awful East, who dripped venom from her tongue and bled thorns, she had listened to his secrets and bitten her tongue and said nothing, she had followed him into the chaos and smoke of a rebel raid to keep him safe, she had danced with him and laughed at him and slept on the floor with him on the nights he couldn't keep the nightmares at bay and her head was filled with memories of Zuni.

Dead, though. Dead now, like Angrec before her, and Demetrius remembered seeing East for the very first time and seeing her dark, inky eyes, and thinking to himself that there must be a reason this small, ragged girl had Angrec's eyes.

He had wanted her to be like Angrec. A convenient substitute, a chance to start over again, a chance to relieve the last three, five, seven years and this time do it right, do it all right.

She wasn't Angrec. She hadn't been Angrec. East had been sharp and cruel and unkind,and Demetrius had loved her in a way he didn't think Julien understood - not as he had loved Angrec, not in the manner that Maxon had loved America. Different, but no less meaningful.

Had she been scared, at the end? When she looked out the window and saw men with machetes, women with machine guns, rebels swarming in close? She had died alone, hadn't she? Had that scared her?

"They were good men," Demetrius said,and he couldn't help but let his voice break. "They didn't deserve to die that way."

* * *

"No," Julien said. "You need to listen."

Oh, he walked like an old man already and Islana wanted to reach out and tell him - it's okay. Everything will be fine. It's not your fault.

But she wouldn't lie to him.

So instead, she was selfish.

"Dhoka." Islana gasped out the name like a drowning man might a prayer. "There were guards killed, in Zuni. I heard it was - Julien, please. Is Dhoka...?"

"Your husband is fine," Julien said softly, and if Islana hadn't believed him then she would have believed Demetrius, who had followed him into the room like more pitiable than Islana had ever seen him before - unshaven, red-eyed and shadowed, exhausted and somehow crumpled, like he had lived for a very long time and had decided to give up on the concept for a while. But he nodded when Islana turned her searching eyes to him - and Demetrius didn't lie about his men anymore than Islana would lie about her girls.

Lie for them, though? Absolutely.

She allowed herself to collapse back against the chair, her pulse easing in her throat and chest. She said, "He isn't my husband," and didn't know why it mattered.

"Fiancé," Julien said, and Islana nodded and swallowed hard.

Maybe. For how much longer? When he had believed that she was capable of such a horrific act, of poisoning King Maxon? When he had looked at her and had seen a murderer?

Demetrius knew what she was thinking. He said, "he never thought you were guilty. Never."

Islana looked at him.

"That's why he went," Demetrius said. His voice was husky, thick with tiredness and rasping with grief. "To see your face. To know you were safe. There were some men advocating for vigilante justice, you know. And if any of them had hurt you, it would have been Dhoka in the dungeons right now." He didn't smile, but he looked as though he wanted to. "You know that, Loss."

"Thank you," she said softly, but she couldn't stand the expression on Demetrius' face, that awful, lost, torn expression, so Islana looked away again. She focused on Julien.

"You said you had something to say to me?" she said, and hated how her voice quavered like it did.

Julien nodded, his face drawn and grey. He had not looked at Demetrius since they had entered together, nor Demetrius at him. The tension between them, thick and solid, threatened to suffocate all three of them.

"Islana," he said quietly. "You have spied for me,and never once complained. You have listened to me, risked many things for me, and protected me in more ways than you can ever realise. I hope you know that I count you among my very few friends. And I know that I owe you so much, but more than that, I owe you the truth."

"The truth," she repeated, and Julien nodded.

"A lot of things are going to change," he said quietly. "And they're going to change very quickly. Our family have so many secrets - but one of them is going to matter, and soon. You deserve to know all of them, Islana, but I'll start with this one."

He paused, and the silence stretched on, endless and cold.

"Where," Julien said softly. "Do I begin?"


End file.
